


The Soldier of Ordon

by WritingRampant



Series: Heroes of Hylia [2]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Drama & Romance, mentions of rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 03:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 47,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18422241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingRampant/pseuds/WritingRampant
Summary: Eight years after Ganon was defeated, Hyrule and Ordon have rebuilt. Enon, a prince of Ordon, lives with Link and Zelda in the Hylain capital as they raise their young family. A new threat arises, far to the north. To protect those he loves, Enon steals the Master Sword and embarks to challenge this evil. To do so, he must face the darkness inside him, cast into the Other, to a place where Ganon has slain the Hero and the world has fallen to Shadow.





	1. Prime in Third

Maybe if he lay perfectly still, they would think he was dead and leave him alone. A sharp jab in his side proved his hope was futile.

Link’s chuckle harmonized nicely with the ringing in his ears. “You fall for that every time, Enon.”

He squinted up at his prince. The man smiled down at him, a little rueful. Enon stayed where he was, gasping for air, flat on the sand of the training yard.

“Not…every…time,” he protested breathlessly. His stomach ached sharply where the Prince’s blade had caught him. The wooden practice weapons were weighted to be as heavy or heavier than the steel ones.

Link helped him to his feet, where he leaned over trying to decide if he was going to throw-up. He gulped a few times and the feeling subsided. Sweat dripped off his face, scattering dark drops on the sand. It was humid and stifling in the training yard, even though the sun had dipped below the city walls.

“Too eager,” he was scolded. “You always overreach in third, Enon.”

Enon grunted, stretching his tender muscles. He knew he did, driving for the thrust. But Link being the best swordsman in known memory had something to do with it, as well. He might always make that mistake, but only when his opponent had the speed and strength of a god.

“Again.”

Enon set his teeth and readied himself. He ended in the same place, this time curled around the pain as he retched.

Link made an annoyed noise, half sigh, half groan.

“ _Enon_ ,” he pleaded.

Enon hated third position. He hated the sand scratching his face. He hated everything.

“Enough,” Link declared. “Come on, up you get.”

Enon’s head spun as he stood. He made suitable grunting noises as Link continued his lecture.

“You’d be dead if it was a real blade. Keep your elbow in, watch the point. Don’t-”

“Open my guard in third,” Enon snapped. “I know, I know!”

A sharp cuff to his ear. “And mind your tone.”

Enon made a face at his Prince, who grinned back at him. “Come on, we’ll be late for dinner.”

Food was the last thing Enon wanted. He followed his Prince into the palace, weaving through the armory until they reached the baths. There was not much difference in the temperature or humidity as they walked into the cloud of steam issuing from the echoing room.

Enon missed the cold waters of Ordon most on these midsummer days in Hyrule. A plunge in the swift Carig sounded deliciously appealing right then.

The off-duty guards saluted as they passed through the changing rooms. Link nodded to his soldiers, clapping some on the back, speaking for a moment with others. Once inside the bath proper, servants helped them strip out of their sweaty clothes.

A quick soak eased his aches. He scrubbed dry and yawned as another servant dressed him swiftly. The man hissed as he took in the bruises crisscrossing Enon’s torso.

“Shall I summon a healer, my lord?”

Enon settled his belt. “Thank you, no.” The attendant’s pursed lips spoke volumes.

“How else will I learn my lesson?” Enon asked wryly.

The man muttered, something about _Ordon_ and _savages_.

Link slicked back his hair, dark from the water. His own attendant looked pained.

“No time, Vin,” the Prince told the man with a knowing smile.

The man sighed. “Yes, Your Highness.”

They were not late, but the Queen still lifted her eyebrows as they arrived slightly damp into the dining salon. Why she was disappointed in their appearance, Enon didn’t know. Children in various states of undress ran screeching around the room.

Link strolled to her and kissed her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

She pouted. “Hot.” She rubbed her swollen belly. “I hate summer babies.”

Enon did not mention that all her babies were summer babies. They arrived with almost embarrassing regularity.

“Cousin Enon!” The pack of princesses and princes swarmed over him like a flock of ravenous keese. He went down under their weight, laughing as they ‘attacked’ him, even little Sella, who shrieked “hyah, hyah!” as her chubby fist tapped his head.

“Leave off,” Link called. “He’s been thrashed already today.”

Enon escaped and waded to the table, a twin on each leg. The Queen scowled at him. “Don’t drop your point in third!”

He stuffed a cake into his mouth and spoke around it. “I know!”

“I want cake!” Arnon declared.

“Me, too!” Anwyn piped up.

The noise only increased from there. Firn and the other nannies helped contain the madness, but it was a boisterous meal, like all royal family gatherings. The servants had long since learned to ignore the chaos. The Queen hardly ate anything herself, moving between her children, scolding and coddling them by turns.

Link sat quiet, but his gaze silenced protests about the vegetables his wife scooped onto unwilling plates. Enon, now starving, ate single-mindedly, bouncing Ivin on his knee as he accepted a third plate from Firn. She patted his head and wiped Ivin’s face before moving on to feed Sella.

Once the plates were cleared and the desert trays ravaged, the children were herded to their dormitory.

“I’ll come see you in a minute, darlings!” Zelda called after them. The door shut and she sat with her hair frizzled around her head.

Enon leaned back and enjoyed the breeze through from the wide windows. Link and Zelda talked of trifling things, messages received, details of committee meetings. Enon was supremely grateful he would never have to deal with it. Poor Cantor.

“Sorrint and Misly should arrive tomorrow,” Zelda said, a touch of slyness coloring her voice. Enon ignored her, eyes half-closed. “They’ve been at Terpandra. Her family is coming, as well, she says.”

Link grunted. “Enon won’t start anything. Right, Enon?”

Enon stretched his arms over his head, his shoulders cracking as they grew stiff. “I don’t start quarrels, my prince.”

“I wish you would finish this one,” Zelda sniped. “It is extremely tiresome.”

“I tried to, last time. You set the guards on us, remember?” Nelsin, son of Terpandra, made no secret of his loathing of Enon of Ordon. The feeling was mutual.

“Strangling a member of my nobility is not what I mean!”

“I promise, my Queen, no strangling.”

“Definitely ruin your chances,” Link muttered into his water glass. Enon had been teased about this for too long to react now. He yawned and stood.

“Until tomorrow, my Queen, my prince.”

Zelda smiled warmly at him. Link waved over his shoulder. He left them to enjoy the rest of their meal in peace.

 

His rooms were a suite off the main corridor of the Royal Wing. He went to the windows and looked south over the city and the Field beyond. A dark smudge at the horizon was the southern edge of the Pellisans, the pass into Ordon. He sighed, wishing he was there now.

He loved his prince and the Queen. He loved being here with them, sharing their lives. But he missed his home. Since the end of the war eight years ago, he had bounced between the palace and the King’s House.

There was no reason to keep him in one place or the other. With Link’s children growing sturdy and plentiful, there was little likelihood Enon would ever have to govern the smaller nation. He was grateful for it and certainly did not resent it. He had had little expectation of it, even before.

But looking at those distant hills always brought his worries to the surface. No matter how many months he spent here, he always felt an outsider. Technically, Ordon still ruled independently, with the understanding that Link would succeed. When Cantor was old enough, he would be Crown Prince of Hyrule. Would Lili be Lady of Ordon or would Cantor be ceded both nations?

How many generations before the Lord of Ordon devolved into another Hylian Magistrate? It was a sensitive topic the Hylian Assembly and the Ordonian Council avoided.

Luckily, this was not his problem.

Enon scowled at the sunset. He had plenty of other problems, two of whom were arriving in Castle Town tomorrow.

 

He always forgot how beautiful Sorrint’s wife was. And how silly. She arrived laughing, eyes sparkling. She rushed to the Queen and hugged her tightly.

“You’re so big already!” Misly declared. She rubbed Zelda’s abdomen, cooing to the baby within. Enon wondered if the fluttering woman knew she was one of the few allowed such liberties. The Queen kept a decidedly sharp knife hidden in her clothing. “How much longer, my dear?”

“Another month,” Zelda told her.

Sorrint and Link shook hands. They spoke in their native language, something Enon always craved to hear. Sometimes he even dreamed in Hylian, now.

“That new strain is developing well,” Sorrint was saying. “Better yield per acre than last year’s variety.”

The rest of the Terpandra family stood awkwardly by the door. Servants collected cases and carted them off. Lord Terpandra bowed when Link turned his attention to the older man.

“Good roads?” Link asked, switching back to his accented Hylian. He never made the least effort to sound more native.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And Lady Terpandra.” Link bowed to the man’s wife. She curtsied, her mouth thin. She disliked him as much as he disliked her. But she knew well enough the Prince’s power. “Always a pleasure, ma’am.”

“And you, sir.” Enon hid his grin.

Link greeted the rest of the family with a casual nod, arm already around his wife’s waist. The royal couple moved on, Misly and Sorrint with them. Their two girls clutched at their mother’s skirts. Enon made to follow.

“Prince Enon?”

He turned and nodded to Nelsin, Terpandra’s son. “Terpandra,’ he returned coolly. He couldn’t help stiffening as the man detained him with a hand on his shoulder.

Nelsin pulled it back, a little red in the face. “Hope you’re doing well.”

Enon eyed him. “Well enough.” His abdomen ached from yesterday’s lesson. He was not looking forward to today’s. “Yourself?”

“Excellent health, thank you, sir.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, in which the rest of his family watched them nervously. Enon wanted to throw up his hands. He had spoken the truth last night: he never _started_ fights.

“I’ll leave you to settle in,” he said, wishing he could manage the same drawling inflection the prince had. Too much Dhatin blood in him, his accent clipped and precise. It made him sound polite even when he didn’t want to be.

He bowed to them and left, determinedly not looking in the direction of their youngest daughter.

 

The guard closed the door behind the Prince of Ordon and everyone in the room let out a sigh, servants included. Balka kept her eyes down, torn between annoyance and amusement.

Her parents immediately started hissing to each other. Nelsin looked a little sick. Han had a book out. Balka stripped off her traveling gloves and slipped out of the room.

After a week on the road, she was ready to strangle the lot of them. Not Misly, never Misly. She was so sweet, as were her girls, even with Balka’s mother droning on and on about how hot it was and the state of the roads (freshly repaired and smooth as silk). Sorrint was as even-tempered as always, nothing more than an expressive grimace to his wife now and again.

At least, not that Balka knew. He did mutter things in Ordonian when his in-laws were being particularly trying and Misly would get that prim look, with her full lips pressed together. Balka could only imagine what he said when they were alone. She didn’t think she could have suffered through eight years of them. She lived in daily expectation of Sorrint carrying her sister off to Ordon for good.

The interior of the palace was cool compared to the smothering heat of the city. Balka had not wanted to come, especially this time of year. But Sorrint had some business to discuss with the Prince, and Misly wanted to be here when the next royal baby was born. Her parents never passed up a chance to fawn over the royal couple or put their unwed daughters out for display.

“But, Balka,” her mother had protested. “You are nearly eighteen! And no man has offered for you!”

Which was exactly how she wanted it. Even if she knew the reason for their avoidance of her was heavily muscled and not shy about using his fists.

“Why, your sister had dozens of men after her!”

Balka snorted. So Misly had told her when their mother’s eye first started gleaming as she looked on her youngest. How the woman had thrown Misly at any male that walked by. How she had been betrothed to the son of a traitorous villain. Balka had taken the caution to heart and would not be bullied into marriage.

Not even by the Queen or Consort.

Balka went out into a shaded courtyard. A fountain hissed in the center, vines cooling the air. Other members of the palace household had sought refuge here. She found a vacant bench and looked up at the half-completed tower above her.

The top of it was still missing, blasted apart during the Queen’s battle with Ganon. Much of it had needed to be demolished, the structure too damaged to salvage. The Queen refused to rebuild it until her city was fully recovered. Until Ordon was rebuilt.

They both were nearly finished. The old Goddess gate still lay in the Irritara, algae and water plants colonizing its dull surface. The massive skull of the Colossus had been dragged to a field and left for tourists to gawk over. She had never been to Ordon. Was not sure if she had the courage to ask to go. Sorrint and Misly would gladly take her, but she did not know how to avoid awkward questions.

Knowing it would be several hours until her parents recovered enough from the trip to realize she was missing, Balka continued strolled about the palace. There were several other families in residence, those without plantations to manage or having state business to conduct even during the middle of the growing season.

She exchanged pleasantries with those she knew. Some of the upper servants greeted her with unaffected pleasure, asking after her sister and ‘that nice Ordonian soldier.’ It was relieving to know not all her family was considered obnoxious.

She ended up on the reaches above the training yards. They were quiet this time of day. Most of the guardsmen did their sessions in the early morning. It was one of her earliest memories, listening to their rumbling counts as she lay snuggled in her bed. Being poor, her family had some of the least desirable rooms in the palace. They had overlooked the kitchen gardens, washing yards and the like.

Now, they lived in the same wing as the royal family. Misly was a hero of the war, Sorrint some sort of close relative of the Prince Consort. Balka had never been able to sort out how all the Ordonians were related. Everyone seemed to be someone else’s cousin.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, her brother-in-law came out into the training yard. He spoke to someone, who threw something at him from inside the door.

It was the Consort. He lounged out, sword over his shoulder. And behind him-

Balka ducked down below the crenellations. The echoes smeared their voices together, but she knew well who the third man was.

Now what? This was poorly planned out. She couldn’t crawl along the reaches. And if she stood up, they would see her for certain.

Sit here until they finished? Who knew how long that would be.

“Uh…miss?”

Perfect. She loved looking like a madwoman.

She ran her hands over the dusty stoneworks.

“Blast!” she said. “I dropped an earring!”

The guard dutifully cast about.

“Oh, here it is!” She brandished the pearl drop she had palmed from her ear. She accepted his hand to stand and thanked him. Keeping her gaze forward, she moved calmly back to stairs down into the palace. The noise below didn’t change, the heavy clatter of wood against wood.

She thought she was free until their mock battle broke off suddenly.

She chanced a peak. Enon was laying face down on the ground, his arm wrenched around. The Prince stood on his shoulder-blade. She winced as Enon slapped the sand and was released.

Sorrint leaned on his sword, howling with laughter. Enon stood and spat out a mouthful of blood. She scurried the last few steps and ducked into the safety of the palace.

 

“Something distract you?” Link asked.

Enon wiped the blood from his chin. “Shut up.”

Sorrint chortled. “Come on, Enon. Show me this prime in third.”

 

They ate together that first night, as they did whenever the two families were in residence. Balka didn’t know which of them enforced it, Misly or the Queen, but if she found out, she would put snails in their bed sheets.

The younger children were excluded, thank Hylia. Only Cantor and Lili of the royal household were there and Fara of the Terpandra-Dhatins. Balka sat between Han and Prince Enon and fumed silently. The Queen’s meddling was growing tiresome.

The young prince had a nasty bruise on his cheek when he arrived, hair still damp. The Queen took one look at him and spun to jab her husband in the chest. She scolded him, mixing Hylian and Ordonian into an unintelligible mess. The prince apparently understood, as he said in a wheedling tone, “ _Tes de nahn larkin-!”_

“Don’t you try that with me!” she snapped. Enon grinned at her and winced.

“My fault. Dropped my guard,” he told her, feeling his lip tenderly.

Her hand gleamed as it brushed his cheek. The bruise lightened from purple to yellow green.

“Now, Zelda,” the Consort said in mocking scold. “How else will he learn?”

Fara gaped at them both from behind her mother.

“How did you do that?” she demanded.

The Queen’s laugh was a little uncomfortable. “Oh, just a small thing, dear.”

“It’s healing magic.” Fara persisted.

“A type, yes.”

“How?” The small girl bounced on her toes. “Can you do it again? Can you heal anyone? Can you heal something bigger?”

“Fara,” Misly interceded. “Not at dinner, please.”

The girl gulped back her questions.

“She healed this,” the prince said suddenly. Balka’s mother squawked as he opened his tunic. Fara stared in amazement at the scar across his chest. “There’s a matching one back here.” He pointed over his shoulder. “The blade went straight through me.”

Balka had never heard the girl speak so much at one time.

“You were _stabbed_?” she asked incredulously. “Who did it? Did it hurt? How big was the sword? How did you survive? Is there a piece still in there?”

The prince smiled and his wife blushed. “Definitely not dinner conversation,” he told the girl. “Another time, Miss Fara, I promise.”

She and Cantor sat together, heads almost touching as they whispered. Balka caught some of their conversation over the noise of the meal.

“Then Daddy pulled the sword out and stabbed _him_ with it!”

Fara gasped. “Wouldn’t all his blood fall out?”

“It did, Mama says. He almost died.”

Fara munched her food, eyes distant. “I wonder why we need blood. Aunt Han, why do we need blood?”

Silent up to now, Balka’s next sister turned to them.

“It is believed that blood carries some form of energy around the body.”

“How?”

“Your body is full of tiny tubes that carry the blood like rivers and streams from your heart to your other organs.”

“Organs?”

“Your lungs, liver, brain.”

“What do they do?”

Han had taken a breath, no doubt to discourse on the various functions of human organs, when Misly ended the lecture prematurely.

“This is certainly not fit for the table,” she said sternly. “Another time, right Han?”

Han shrugged and went back to her food.

Fara’s grandmother added her own scold. “Fara, dear, that kind of talk isn’t ladylike.”

Fara, mild mannered as she was, could be just as obstinate as her Aunt. “I want to be a healer,” she declared.

Lady Terpandra gave a tinkling sort of laugh. “Don’t be silly, Fara.”

“It’s not silly. I’m going to be a healer. Cantor said I can.”

“No disrespect, but Prince Cantor has no say in your future.”

“I will be a princess and a healer, just like Lady Zelda.”

“A princess?” Lady Terpandra repeated blankly. “What on earth are you-?”

Fara helped herself to a jam tart. “When we’re married, I’ll be a princess, of course.”

Enon choked on his drink. “I’m sorry, what did you say, Miss Fara?”

“Not for a long time,” she added. “Years and years, when we’re grown-ups.”

Balka was supremely grateful her mother and the prince were both rendered speechless. The rest of the table seemed to have missed this interchange. She stepped into the breach.

“But how does the energy get into the blood, I wonder?”

Fara ruminated on this. Distracted, she started developing theories. Balka let her, disliking the considering gleam in her mother’s eyes. She remembered it well. Did Misly know about this?

Enon leaned to mutter to her. “Does your sister know about this?”

“I don’t know. But, it’s just child’s talk.”

Right?

Enon seemed uneasy. “You’re probably right,” he said slowly.

He was much too close, his head next to hers as Fara’s was to Cantor’s. Except they weren’t seven years old. She stiffened her spine and clattered her silverware.

“That was an impressive bruise,” she commented. “Won in the training yard?”

“I don’t know about _won_ ,” he said. “Earned, yes, for being sloppy. The two of them together are like fighting ten.” He nodded to the Consort and Sorrint.

“Indeed.”

There was no response to this, so he went back to his meal. They finished in silence.


	2. Bad Memories

Enon ignored Zelda’s raised eyebrows and drained a third glass of wine. Link’s mouth was hard and he knew he’d hear about it the moment they were alone. But between sitting next to Balka all evening, Fara’s announcement about her and Cantor’s apparent plans to marry, and the always unctuous Terpandra’s, he didn’t really care what the prince felt about it.

Finally, the meal was over. Enon pushed back as soon as polite.

“I need to do something,” he said vaguely. The royal couple’s looks were pointed. He ignored them. Less easy to ignore was Nelsin hurrying to catch him up.

“Nelsin, I don’t think-” His mother’s warning cut off as the door shut.

Enon eyed him. “What do you want?”

Nelsin set his chin. “To talk to you.”

“I’m really not in the mood.” Maybe this _one_ time, he could start something. It always ended with Nelsin bleating on the ground anyway. Efficient, to just clip him one under the ear and be done.

“It’s about Balka.”

Nelsin backed up against a wall, hands up. “She’s my sister, Enon, I’m worried about her. Just a friendly word.”

“Friendly?” Enon grated. He had a headache. Zelda’s healing had helped a little, but it still throbbed behind his eyes. “Since when have we been friendly?”

For all Nelsin was two years older, Enon stood an inch taller. And much broader. He doubted the man knew which end of a sword to swing.

Nelsin swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Look, I know you and I haven’t always gotten along.” It was an understatement imbecilic in its magnitude. “I just wanted to say, I’m sorry.”

Enon was starting to feel the wine, now. “Sorry?” he repeated.

Nelsin straightened, less cringing and more mulish. “I am sorry. It’s not like our families are ever _not_ going to mingle. I was an ass, I admit it. You were, too. Can we move on? My sister frets about it. Then Sorrint gets on me about it and…well, you know how he is.”

Enon grimaced. He did and had a moment of sympathy for Nelsin. A very brief moment. “Speaking of sisters, did you hear Fara…?”

Nelsin nodded and rubbed his face. “She told me, last year, I think. How she and Cantor have decided they are going to get married.”

Enon was definitely feeling drunk. It didn’t help his head or the knot of frustrated misery in his chest.

“Are you alright?” Nelsin asked. “You don’t look so well.”

Enon could never hold his wine. “Dropped my third,” he muttered.

Nelsin did not understand. “How hard did you hit your head?”

Hard enough the minutes after were tinny and sharp.

“You, there,” Nelsin commanded. He beckoned to a passing servant. “Help the prince to his chambers.”

Enon brushed them both off. “I’m fine. Just a little drunk.”

“Nelsin!”

Enon flinched, keeping his face turned away. She hissed at her brother. “What is going on? Mama said-”

“Go away, Balka,” Nelsin told her sternly.

She ignored him “Are you sick, your highness?”

He was going to be. “No.”

“You’re awfully green. Come back-”

He shrugged out of Nelsin’s grip. “I’m _fine_ ,” he snapped. “Go away. Both of you.”

Her fists clenched, but before they could really get started, another person arrived. This one Enon welcomed with relief.

“Sheik, _yesuba_ _Ordona_.”

The man surveyed their agitation with cool detachment.

“Is there trouble, Enon?”

Nelsin answered swiftly, “No, sir. The prince isn’t feeling well, is all. I was helping.”

“You were helping,” Sheik repeated. Both siblings bristled at the drawling disbelief in the Sheik’ah master’s voice.

Enon forestalled whatever retort Balka had behind her pursed lips by staggering toward him. Sheik caught his arm, truly concerned now.

“You _are_ sick! Miss Balka, fetch the Queen. Enon-”

“I’m fine,” Enon said yet again. “I just need to lie down.”

Sheik helped him to his rooms. “What happened?”

“I dropped in third, got concussed, and drank too much. It’s nothing.”

Sheik tipped him into the bed. “Stay there.”

Enon was glad to obey. The room was spinning uncomfortably fast. Sheik came back with a palace healer.

The man completed a brisk examination. “You’re a fool,” he said. “Why didn’t you come to us at once?”

It wasn’t the first time Enon had taken a blow to the head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Lie still.”

He grew warm and sleepy as the healing magic settled over him. He was perfectly happy to do so and enjoyed how distant reality became. Even their argument didn’t bother him.

“He’s still a child!” a man was saying. Sheik?

“He _must_ be ready.” That was Link.

“What for?”

“Cantor says he must be prepared.”

“By bashing his skull in?”

“I-”

“He is not as strong as you. No one is.”

That was true. The Prince made it look effortless, but his skill was inhuman. Divine.

“You’re going to kill him if you’re not careful.”

“It’s his choice.”

“Is it?”

Enon lost interest, sinking deeper into the healing. Their arguments were nothing new. Link and Sheik always butted heads, about Zelda, the army, how many guards to employ, where to take the children for holiday outings.

The servants had a word for it: ‘Shlink.’ _What’s happening? Oh, just another Shlink. How did this vase break? Shlink was in here._

Enon’s own family was loudly confrontational, so had thought nothing of it until others started whispering. Did Sheik dislike the prince? Was the Queen’s guard a threat to the Consort?

Enon laughed at their fears. Both men were absolutely devoted to the Queen. If Sheik had wanted Link gone, he would have disappeared long ago. And if Link ever wanted Sheik dispatched, he would do it himself, calmly clean his knife on Sheik’s tunic, and beg his wife for forgiveness.

“Now, young prince, how are you feeling?”

Enon blinked a few times. “Better.”

“You will rest tonight _and_ tomorrow. No weapons practice, no excitement. Sleep.”

Enon grimaced. “I will.”

“Good lad.” The healer patted his shoulder and made his report to the Prince.

“Concussion. I healed much if it. Now he just needs to rest.”

“Thank you, Tomas.”

“And please stop hitting him in the head.”

Enon grinned as the prince’s voice pitched to reach him. “Then he needs to keep his guard up in third.”

Enon had only enough energy to grunt before falling asleep.

 

Balka watched Enon stumble away with Sheik. She turned on her brother.

“What were you doing?”

Nelsin stuck his jaw out. “We were just talking.”

“Then why’s he so sick?”

“He drank too much, he said.”

Balka had noticed, wondering at it. He didn’t usually. Not at these family dinners, at least. Who knew what he did at other times.

Not that she cared. He could do whatever he wished, whenever he wished.

Nelsin was still blathering on. He followed her back to the salon. The Queen’s questioning eyes drew the truth from her.

“Enon is unwell,” Balka said. “Master Sheik took him to his rooms.”

The Queen and the Consort exchanged a look. Balka did not miss the prince’s quick glance over Nelsin.

“I’ll go see him,” the prince said. Sorrint half stood and was waved down. Balka sat by Han and stared at her plate, twisting a slim ring on her finger.

Han nudged her. “He’ll be alright.”

Balka hated her blush. “I’m not worried about him.”

Her older sister’s hand closed over hers, stilling them. Balka forced her fingers to relax and lay flat on her skirts.

“You should tell him.”

Balka both loved and despised her pragmatic sister. “Tell him what?”

“How you feel about him.”

Not only mortifying, but impossible, as she had no idea what she felt about him. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Han laughed softly. “He’s obviously enamored with you, as much as he tries to hide it.”

“Since when are you so knowledgeable about affairs of the heart?” Balka asked in a scathing undertone.

“Keen observation is the key to accurate scientific research,” Han said loftily. She smiled and her otherwise stern features softened. “And why else would he get piss drunk in front of his cousin? You know the prince is going to harangue him for this.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“Men usually are at this age. Look at Nelsin.”

Balka had to agree. They were all of them idiots, breaking their legs jumping horses and betting each other to climb walls blindfolded or wrestle goats.

“What we need is a war.”

Balka gaped at her sister. “A what?”

Han had her ‘lecturing’ look. “Males of most species are known to be aggressive and territorial in this early adult stage as they compete for resources and mates. Displays of dominance establish a natural order, with the most powerful male granted access to the most resources. Humans, generally, are more civilized, though the behavior is apparent.”

Balka wasn’t sure whether to laugh or hide her face in her hands.

“Ordon has an effective system, if slightly barbaric. Keeps the men in line, gives them focus. Both princes have clearly benefitted from the discipline needed for their Demon Watch. But I wonder how bored they are here in Castle Town. No wonder Enon thrashes Nelsin every time they meet.

“A word of advice, sister,” Han added, rising from the table. “If you do choose a man, do it while the Prince is in Ordon. Or pick someone up to his weight.”

Balka sat awkwardly alone as the others finished their food and drifted away. Fara and Cantor were under the table, still debating how much blood a man had inside of him and various ways to find out without killing someone. Balka saw her mother bearing down on her. She slipped away with a murmured excuse.

The royal wing was elegantly but comfortably furnished. The interconnecting rooms were filled with chairs and books. Toys cluttered the space, wooden figures of horses and soldiers, blocks, swords, kick balls tucked into corners. She touched the soft, woolen hair of a doll, proudly defending her castle from an attacking stuffed goat.

She drew up as the Consort’s voice moved toward her. He was speaking in Ordonian. He and Sorrint went past the half open door.

“ _Goiza ven ta Enon dresba_.”

_Something must be done about Enon._

She knew which room was his. She had run through these halls with him, hid under these tables. They had built hideouts in the gardens in summer and played games inside on dreary winter days.

And on one of those autumn days, sitting cozy in a small alcove, he had kissed her. On the mouth, which, at fourteen, had shocked and scared her.

She had told no one, not even Misly, in whom she confided everything. Enon had left soon after for Ordon to take his first round in the Watch.

When she saw him next, he was taller than her, his torso and arms filling out. Their days of playing games and teasing each other like siblings were over.

Now…

Now, he was almost a stranger. They hardly spoke. And the few conversations they did have were stilted and colored by bad memories.

She wanted to be friends again. She missed him; he had been such a comfort to her. Funny, cheerful, adventurous. They had planned grand travels to far off lands, finding maps in the books salvaged from the destruction and arguing over the monsters they would vanquish.

Then he went away and slew real monsters, spending months in Ordon’s Watch, hunting down the demons still roaming after Ganon’s defeat. Went on real adventures, saw the places she only imagined.

And she stayed behind, in the castle or bustled to her family’s plantation to spend her days wandering over the hills. Eagerly waiting for his letters, just for a glimpse of new places. Wondering if she married him if they could go on the adventures they planned. Unsure why she felt terrified at the thought but seeing no other escape from the monotonous weeks and months.

She had been so happy to see him again. Eager to hear about his activities the past year and a half. He had changed so much, but still funny and kind.

He had kissed her again, which she allowed even as her stomach clenched with fear. Had pushed her back, pressing her against a table.

Just the memory of his hands on her made her sick. She had shoved him weakly, a breathless ‘ _No_!’ barely escaping.

“What?” he’d demanded, eyes stormy.

“No. Please, Enon.”

His hands were hard on her arms. “Why not?”

“I don’t want- just stop.”

She didn’t remember what he said exactly, too angry and ashamed to recall more than his biting tone and the sting of her palm as she slapped him. The terror as her best friend grabbed her roughly. Her whimper, pleading with him to stop.

He had, lurching back so suddenly she nearly fell.

The horror in his face only magnified her own, realizing what he had wanted, what he had considered his for the taking.

 _“Barka te suh handia Ordona,”_ he’d whispered. “Balka, Balka, I am so sorry.  Balka, please-”

She’d slapped him again, as hard as she could. Twice, three times, tears burning her cheeks. He’d stood eyes closed, face averted.

That had been nearly two years ago.

He’d begged her forgiveness, over and over. Promising anything, swearing his affection, his remorse, until she told him she never wanted to speak to him again. That if he did not leave her alone, she would tell his prince what he had done.

He obeyed. Nearly a year passed until they spoke again. Stiff and formal, the wariness in his face matching the hurt in her heart. The way he leaned away from her when the adults sat them next to each other showing he was still obeying her command.

He didn’t look at her, even now. She had been surprised he had spoken to her at dinner. She had watched concerned as he drained his glass twice in quick succession before accepting the third. She had barely sipped hers and her head had swirled fuzzily.

The prince was gone, the corridor silent. She tried not to creep. The guard by his door straightened at her approach.

“I’d like to speak with Enon,” she said.

The man, an Ordonian, shrugged. “Don’t think he’ll be up to much conversation,” he drawled thickly.

“Nevertheless…”

He opened the door for her. She did creep a little as she crossed the main living space. She had not been in here in years. It was very different than she remembered.

The clothing he had worn at dinner hung from a chair-back. His desk was littered with papers, books. She lifted the corner of one to peer at the map beneath. They had both loved maps. Such promise contained in the heavy paper, endless possibilities.

His bedchamber door was cracked. She pushed it wider with one finger. He lay asleep on the wide bed, an arm thrown over his head. His bruise was gone.

She did not have the courage to enter that space. Leaving him to rest, she slipped out and hurried back to her rooms.

 

His head was thick, but less sore when he woke. He sat up, grimacing as his body protested.

“Good afternoon, little prince.”

Enon groaned at Firn’s cheerful greeting. She always managed to be present when he had done something particularity stupid. Her very presence was a lecture, without her saying a word.

“I know,” he croaked. “Keep my guard up!”

“Everyone drops in third; you have to, to complete the _ultzad prim_. Link is simply too fast to be caught by it. Try a _xerro gotan._ ” She poked him in the chest. “I ever catch you drinking like that again, I will write to your mother. The Queen is most displeased.”

Enon scowled. “I won’t,” he promised. It hadn’t helped, anyway. Only made him frustrated _and_ sick.

He had hoped with time…but she still hated him. He could feel it like a miasma swirling around her.

Firn smiled at him, kissed his forehead, and went out.

He managed to wash and dress himself without falling over. Like all good healers, Tomas had done an excellent job mending the physical damage. The hangover would have to resolve on its own, a lesson in stupidity. He would have been an excellent Ordonian.

Squinting against the light, he went out into the main wing. Thankfully, the children were not there. But Balka was.

He drew up, watching as she turned over a page in a large book. An atlas, one they used to examine together.

She saw him. She blushed, pinking her fair cheeks.

Goddess, she was beautiful. Light hair tucked up on her head, full lips, slender, graceful. She was a golden echo to her dark, voluptuous sister.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Fine.” He was tired of that word. He was _not_ fine. Angry, frustrated, bored, restless. “Much better than yesterday, thank you.”

“You really shouldn’t drink so much.”

“I don’t.”

She frowned at him, eyes searching his. She looked away. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” She gathered up the atlas.

He spoke quickly, desperately. “ _Frioc’s_ _Atlas of Hyrule and the Subcontinent_.”

She hugged it to her chest. “Even more outdated than before.”

“Ordon wasn’t detailed, right? Nothing past your Waste.”

She hesitated, like a rabbit torn between fleeing and freezing, praying the fox missed her presence. He swallowed a heavy ache in his throat.

“Well, I’d better find the Queen. She’ll want to scold me like everyone else.”

Balka’s smile was stiff. He nodded to her and strode past.

He paused a minute outside the Queen’s salon, his forehead against the cool wood of the door. Then he knocked.

“Come in!”

The Queen lay on a divan, her swollen feet propped up on pillows. She smiled at him.

“Enon!”

“I don’t usually, and I won’t again, I promise.”

She laughed. “Come sit.”

He did, chin in his hands. They sat in companionable silence for a long while. He could hear the children’s laughter from the garden below the windows.

“What’s troubling you, my soldier?”

Enon tried to smile. “Headache.”

She dismissed his weak attempt to prevaricate. “Enon, what happened between you two?”

Zelda was not quite a mother, not quite a sister. A friend, but so much more.

“I demanded something I had no right to, that she was not willing to give.”

The Queen’s eyes were sharp and sad at the same time. “And?”

He shrugged, smoothing the fabric of the cushion, velvet against the callouses on his palms. “I crossed a line and she rightfully dismissed me. Until she decides otherwise, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Have you tried-?”

“No,” he said firmly. “She was perfectly clear.”

_I hate you, Enon! Don’t speak to me ever again!_

They had to, forced together by their families.  But they did not talk, not really. Not like they used to, sharing their ideas, excitement, plans. Plans he always assumed included her and him together.

He wanted to blame his actions on youthful ardor, but he knew himself better than that. He had been a selfish bastard and would pay the penalty without complaint. Even if she chose someone else, married someone else.

The thought made him ill with longing.

Zelda’s hand cupped his chin. “My dear one, you have that same look in your eyes.”

He would never forget the feel of the blood on his hands, hot and slick. “I’ll be fine.” Life went on, right? He would find some other woman, maybe. Or get killed and eaten by a _crytch_.

Zelda grimaced, hands pressed to her stomach.

“Here,” she said, grabbing his wrist. Under his hand little feet drummed. “She’s impatient to arrive.”

“Link is sure it’s a boy.”

“It’s a girl.”

“You’ve been wrong every time, my Queen.”

“Not every time.”

“Twins don’t count.”

“Cantor says it’s a girl.”

Enon’s mirth faded. “Fara said something at dinner last night. That she and Cantor are going to marry.”

Zelda’s brow creased, uneasy. “I know.”

He watched her worried face, her eyes drawn to her children’s voices echoing up to the window.

“He is an unusual child,” Enon said. “Harro asks about him.” More than interest in her prince’s son, named for her grandfather, once the High Priest of Ordona.

“I wish…” The Queen spoke with the hesitancy of voicing long-hidden fears. “I wish we knew where Link came from. Who his parents were.”

“Is there any way to trace his family?”

“We have some clues,” she said. “But he…he doesn’t want to find out.”

Why not? Surely it would bring some closure. “Do you want me to find them?”

She glanced swiftly to his face. “No. No, not unless he wants it. It’s his choice to make.”

“Where is he?”

She attempted to joke. “His favorite: meeting with the magistrates.”

Enon laughed obediently and went out, her admonition to rest following him through the door.

 

He was so incredibly bored. The summer days smeared together, sunny and hot. His head felt better. He tried a _gotan_. Link jerked back, untouched, but surprised.

“Do that again!” he commanded, eyes narrowed in professional interest. Enon managed to brush the prince’s head, the edge of the wooden sword scraping along his cheek.

Link laughed, the deep, dark one that sent shivers down Enon’s spine.

“Well done, my soldier.” The bright blue of the prince’s eyes gleamed. “Well done.”

The castle was quiet, even with eight rowdy children in attendance. The city grew sluggish under the relentless heat. Even the river crawled, sparkling in the sun.

Enon wondered through the palace, pacing the still damaged portions of the upper wings. He and Balka used to sneak into these unused passages, clinging tightly to a lantern. They had found ‘treasure,’ trinkets and broken pottery left behind. Scraps of rusty armor. Animal bones, and once, part of a human skeleton.

She had bit off a shriek. He hadn’t felt so well himself but wouldn’t to show fear in front of the girl he adored. When he suggested she go back, she clenched her fists and retorted that she was a brave as he was. Even dared to poke the collapsed ribcage with a fire poker.

And when they emerged, dirty and well past bedtime, their respective parental figures scolded them fiercely. They shared an unrepentant grin, a camaraderie and a promise, that they would meet again for another adventure.

The palace felt much smaller now. There was little magic left in these grimy passages, only dirt and debris blown in over the years from the broken windows.

He skipped their combined dinner. He didn’t think he could stand to sit next to her all evening. Nor tolerate Nelsin’s attempts to be friends. The man was incessant. Instead he hid in a tower and watched the sunset.

He crept back to his room in the dusk, knowing Link would understand his need to be alone. He met the prince up on the reaches sometimes, watching the horizon hungrily.

Enon paused as voices rose behind a door. It was Misly and her mother. He grimaced. As sunny as Sorrint’s wife was, even she grew exasperated with her mother when the older woman was being particularly trying.

“…must do something!” Lady Terpandra said.

“It is her choice,” Misly snapped back.

Terpandra’s voice faded, facing away, maybe, then, “…lose this opportunity!”

“Balka’s future is not an ‘opportunity,’” Misly said firmly.

“But she could wed a _prince!”_

Enon scowled. There were many reasons he disliked Balka’s mother, but her avaricious interest in their friendship had always infuriated him. Did that pressure taint their relationship, have some influence on her refusal?

“She will marry whomever she chooses,” Misly declared.

“If you would just _talk_ to her.”

“No.”

“But-”

“No. And that is my last word. If you persist in badgering her about this, I will have to speak to the Queen.”

Han had told Enon that Misly used to be meek, tractable, and flighty. He didn’t believe it; the woman was as obstinate was she was beautiful.

He moved on, Lady Terpandra’s words ringing in his head. _She could wed a prince!_

Enon rarely thought of his rank as a prince of Ordon. It was just something he was, a part of him. A Prince of the House, a Soldier of the Demon Watch, a Son of the Dhatin. He still took his place in the Gap, still hunted into the Watch. Still served his people as a man of his blood was expected to. It was only here that he became something to be protected, something coveted.

Prince of what, though? Link was the Prince. His son was the Heir. There was no dispute; the man had earned the right.

What did that make him? What did his future hold? More endless summers spent sparring with wooden swords? Taking his round in the Watch and returning home to…some Ordonian woman? Would Balka have even wanted to live in Ordon? Or would he have been stuck here like Link?

Enon grimaced. He knew how in love with Zelda Link was. It was obvious in the way he looked at her, touched her. In every new baby that arrived. But was he as bored running drills in the training yard as Enon was?

 

Balka enjoyed playing with the children, even when trapped inside all day due to thunderstorms. They ran through the royal suite, shrieking with glee as they tumbled and jumped.

She tickled Sella as the girl giggled, watching Ivin build a tower of blocks and immediately kick it down. He laughed uproariously and started a new one.

“Enon!” the children chorused.

Balka scowled. Sella squirmed free. They danced around the prince, begging him to play.

“Later, after I clean up,” he promised. He was dripping wet. He saw her and looked away again. “ _Later,”_ he told Anwyn. “I’m soaked. Your papa doesn’t let a little rain stop his lessons.”

The thunder was barely louder than the deluge drumming against the windows. He went through, his boots leaving wet marks on the carpet. One of the servants squawked at him and he left laughing.

“He misses you.”

Balka jumped and blushed that she was caught staring.

Cantor stood next to her, his eyes also following the prince.

“You startled me, Cantor!”

The boy smiled at her, his teeth half grown in. “Sorry.” He became serious again. “He hurts inside.”

Balka didn’t know what to say. She liked this child as she did the others, but there was something different about him. About his eyes and their brightness.

“Whom?” she asked with an attempt at an airy tone.

“Enon. When he looks at you, it hurts him.”

She smoothed her skirts. She hated wearing skirts. “How so?”

“Mama thinks it will get better. But it won’t.”

Balka swallowed. “It won’t?”

“No.” His treble voice gave his seriousness an unexpected weight. “But when he leaves, then he can forget, maybe.”

Desperate for a change in topic, she said, “Is he leaving for Ordon soon, then? Your Mama did not tell me.”

Cantor cocked his head over. “Ordon? No, not Ordon.”

“Then where is he going?”

Cantor frowned, his eyes narrowed so he looked like his father. “I can’t see.”

“Balka! Play with me!”

“Of course, darling!” she said, turning to Ivin. “Let’s build another tower!”

Cantor drifted away, finding Fara where she leafed through a book. He settled on the carpet next to her and looked over her shoulder. She pointed to something and he nodded, his golden head next to her dark one.

Balka looked again to where the prince disappeared. Leaving Ivin to his construction, she went down the corridor to Enon’s rooms.

She hesitated a long time outside, her fist raised. Chastising herself for a coward, she knocked.

Enon opened the door and froze a moment, eyes wide. And hurt, she could see, had seen ever since that afternoon. Pained, unhappy, because of her.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I…” She had to take a deep breath. “I was wondering if we could talk.”

He didn’t answer at once. Then, “Sure, Balka. Um…let me finish drying off…wait here…?”

She came in and sat in a chair, tucking her hands in her lap.

“I’ll be just a minute.” His bedchamber door shut, leaving her alone in the dim room. The heavy clouds washed everything into a dull gray. She cast about for something to distract her, to stop her ears from straining to hear his movements behind the wall.

He had an atlas open on a table, one more current than Frioc’s. The Hebran Mountains spread before her. She traced the peaks with her finger, almost feeling the icy chill that covered them.

She jumped as the latch turned. He came in dressed in fresh clothes. He went to the desk and lit a lamp. It brightened the room, but also made it feel smaller.

He leaned against the desk. “What do you want to talk about?”

As far from her as possible, she realized. Giving her space? Or resisting temptation?

What did she want to talk about?

“I…” She had to look away. “I just wanted to talk. To you.”

He was barefoot, she noticed. Had she ever seen him without shoes on? Maybe swimming on a summer day long ago.

He shifted but he didn’t respond. Her eyes were itchy. She hated crying; it gave her a headache. Still demeaning her own cowardice, she forced out the truth.

“I miss you, Enon.”

His voice was rough. “I miss you, too.”

“You were my best friend.”

“You can always count me as a friend, Balka.”

That seemed unfair. For him? For her? He didn’t want to be her friend, not only a friend. She didn’t understand this, didn’t know what _she_ wanted.

“Can’t we be like we were?” she asked. Another long silence. She chanced a look. He was looking out the window. Not at her.

“No,” he said softly.

She scrubbed a tear off her hand, furious at it, at all of it.

“I won’t lie, Balka. I love you. I’ve loved you since I first saw you.”

She remembered. In the aftermath of the war, the city roiling with uncertainty. Arriving to find her beloved sister married to a stranger, her life completely uprooted, many from the palace killed or missing. And into this chaos, a boy her same age. A boy who looked on the Queen and Consort not as divine heroes, but family. Who gave the stern Ordonians controlling the city names and faces. Who laughed and played, even when the winter storms blew sleet through the damaged halls. A friend who helped her realize the world would heal, that there was a future for her.

“And if you can’t love me, then you can’t. I understand. I know I hurt you, that I betrayed your trust. I’m sorry, Balka. I wish…” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know what I wish.”

 _He wants to forget._ Cantor’s words chilled her heart. _He wants to leave and forget_.

Was that the only option? To say good-bye?

“Look, if your mother harasses you about it, about me, tell her the truth. That you don’t want me. The Queen will support you. You should never feel unsafe here, Balka. Not in your own home.”

But this wasn’t her home. She didn’t feel at home here. She didn’t feel home, safe, grounded, _anywhere_. She smoothed the map of Hebra, wishing she was there. She loved maps because they meant there was more. Someplace she might belong.

The silence was thick. She blinked away her tears and stood.

“Just know I do think of you as a friend,” she told him. His knees, unable to look up to his face. “And I do forgive you.”

“Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot to me.” But he didn’t sound relieved. His voice was flat, leaden. “Let me know if I can do anything for you. Anything at all, please.”

“Thank you, Enon.”

He opened the door for her. Like a gentleman, a stranger. She nodded to him and went out. The door shut solid behind her and the lock clicked into place.


	3. The Stolen Sword

He promised Zelda he wouldn’t drink anymore, so he didn’t. Instead, he got up early and bullied the palace guards into letting him join their training session, jogging through the predawn and climbing ropes while his lungs burned. Then he rode outside the city until his horse foundered under him. Then he let Link thrash him mercilessly, forcing himself to his feet long after he would normally have given up, until he had to fall gasping to the ground, sick and trembling with exertion.

He managed to stand, digging his practice sword into the sand to leverage himself. Link watched him with a frown in his eyes.

“That’s enough. Give me your sword.”

Enon’s hand was bleeding, new blisters cracked. “Never give up your weapon.”

Three sharp hits and his blade spun across the arena. The rough edge of Link’s sword lay across his cheek. “We’re done, Enon.”

The prince left him there. He sat breathing raggedly until his legs regained some feeling. The bath attendant helped him without a word, not even a judgmental sniff. He ate some sort of meal and fell into bed, too exhausted to do more than snuff the candle.

The palace guard stopped looking surprised at his presence and the stable master had a mount readied for him. Sometimes it was Sorrint, sometimes the prince.

The night the Queen gave birth, he was woken from a fitful sleep to greet the tiny princess.

It had been an unexpectedly long labor and the Queen lay exhausted. Link cuddled the sleeping newborn, tucked safe in one arm.

“Beautiful,” Enon praised, admiring her scrunched, reddened face. “Her name?”

“Firn.”

“Won’t she be proud.”

Link stroked the baby’s head, smiling at this precious daughter. “Firn saved me.”

Enon looked to his prince’s face. Link kissed the baby’s forehead. She grimaced and stirred, but did not wake.

“She was a mother to me, when I first came to Ordon. When I was still learning to trust, to let others close. She helped me feel safe. And later, she supported me when I was uncertain, scared, overwhelmed with my destiny.

“She even came to me when I was Ganon.”

Enon stilled, remembering the shadow, feeling even now the pressure of that evil. Link spoke softly, maybe to him, maybe to this new life.

“She never doubted me, never gave up on me. We are here, _you_ are here, because she loved me absolutely.”

Link carefully laid her in a swaddling basket and settled it in the bed next to his wife. Zelda murmured his name and rolled to encircle the baby with her arms.

Link kissed his wife and drew Enon out with him. He followed his prince through the sleeping castle to the reaches. They climbed the stone steps, coming to rest looking over Lake Hylia.

Link drummed his fingers on the stoneworks, face unreadable in the darkness.

“It won’t help,” he said finally. “Nothing does. Time, maybe. Distance.”

Enon kept his eyes on the stars.

“I don’t want to belittle your feelings, but it may be this wasn’t meant to be.”

Enon clenched his fists, feeling the new callouses crack and stretch. “It’s my own fault,” Enon admitted.

“Zelda says you did something?”

Enon told him, flatly and without sparing details.

Link sighed. “If you had come to me then, I would have horsewhipped you myself.”

“I was going to. She wouldn’t let me.” Was that part of this guilt? That he knew he should have been punished? It would have made it easier to move on, for him at least. What about her?

“Did you explain…?”

“I did, but you know how Hylians are about a woman’s virtue.” Even though he had not come close to raping her, it would have tainted her, damaged her future.

He leaned against the stone, bile rising in his throat. He hated that word, cringing from it. Tried not to think that he was capable of such a vile act. Link’s hand on his shoulder did not comfort him.

“You behaved as many hot-bloodied boys do. And, like the good man you are, you respected her refusal.”

It was a gracious gesture from a man who lived through a hell Enon couldn’t begin to imagine.

“I thought I deserved her. That she was _mine_.”

“You are very young, Enon.”

He heard the meaning, that this was a small thing, a mistake he would and should grow from. That his life was not over if she did not choose him.

Easy sentiments from a someone who had lived countless lives, who had held the infinite, who had been given a woman the Goddesses themselves selected for him.

“I want you to go back to Ordon.”

“I understand.” He did. Back to Ordon, away from her. Excuse after excuse found to keep him there, until either or both of them found someone else.

“I will speak with her.”

“No.” He rarely countered his prince, but he would not let him pressure her. He feared she would agree to marry him. Trap her, which he knew she feared above all else.

“As you will. But you should.”

“I did,” Enon said heavily. “She wants to be _friends_.”

Link laughed. “Then she does not know you at all, my soldier. You have never done things by halves.”

Enon had to smile a little. It was his mother’s constant complaint, that he was never still but for sleeping, always getting into trouble, pushing limits. It was why he felt so close to his prince. The need to explore, to roam. The suffocation of this place.

Even Ordon. Beautiful, mountain Ordon, the new city healing from a devastating blow. A blow inflicted by the man next to him.

“Link?”

“Yes?”

How to ask? “How did you forgive yourself?”

There was a long silence. “I haven’t.” Link’s voice was hardly louder than the wind. “But, each day brings a little more peace. One day, maybe.”

“It wasn’t you,” Enon said fiercely.

“It was. The anger, in any case. The hurt and the bitterness. He used them, but they were mine.”

Bitter. That was good word for the coiled, ashy feeling around his heart. The wine that burned his throat. Even the blood in his mouth. Bitterness.

“You will go to Ordon,” Link continued. “Your uncle wrote saying he-”

“ _Tama_?”

Link jerked around. “ _Cantor_? What in Ordona’s name-?”

“Daddy, I had the dream again.”

 

“There was a castle, bigger than ours. And an ocean.” Cantor sat at his father’s side, legs tucked up so only his toes peeked out of his pajamas. “It shone like a mirror, all silvery and bright.

“There was a man. Like you, daddy, with a sword made of light and a shining crown. Then everything changed. There was the army. They made the ground shake, like when the guards march but lots more. They were killing people. I could hear them screaming.”

Enon shivered, unnerved by this boy’s calm recital. His father listened with an expressionless face.

“And then, son?”

“Then a voice. A woman, I think. She said: Come to me, Hero. You are mine.”

“Anything else?”

“Then I woke up. She’s closer than last time. I thought I felt her touch my face.”

Link’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “I won’t let her hurt you.”

Cantor yawned. “She doesn’t want me, daddy. Just the Hero. That’s what the army is looking for. Can I have a drink of water?”

“Of course.”

Enon paced the room as Link settled his child back in bed. The prince’s eyes were dark when he came back. He glanced to the predawn lighting the sky and sighed.

“Just a dream?”

Link rubbed his face. “No.”

“What, then? A prophecy?”

“I don’t know.”

The new baby squawked and Enon heard Zelda wake. The baby’s complaints faded as her voice murmured soothingly.

 “This is not the first time,” Link told him. “He’s been dreaming of this woman for months. Always looking for him, for the Hero.”

“Who is she? Where is she?”

Link looked out the window again, to the north. “He can’t tell. But not in Hyrule, nor any of the nations of the subcontinent.”

Enon watched Link’s face, saw the fear and the worry there. Saw a certain grimness settle in his eyes, a decision.

“Go to bed, Enon,” the prince commanded. “I will speak with you tomorrow.”

There was nothing to do but watch as he went into the bed chamber. Zelda greeted him; his voice answered in a rumble.

Enon passed into a darkened room, the cool air of the night raising goosebumps on his neck. He stilled, listening to the quiet sounds of the early morning. The castle and the city lay sleeping, the news of the princess’ birth not yet proclaimed.

He thought of Cantor’s toothy smile, the baby Firn’s dark eyes. The cold anger in Link’s face.

He turned and strode into another room. Seldom used now, it held the prince and Queen’s armor. Enon slowed, half terrified, half eager.

He reached out and touched the hilt. Nothing.

 _I cannot let him go,_ he told it, Ordona, whomever, whatever power controlled it. _I **cannot** let him be taken from his family again._

He lifted the Master Sword from its stand.

He half-ran to his room. His saddle bags were in the stables with his riding gear. He shrugged into his mail and drew a plain tunic over it and the linen undershirt. He bundled his traveling kit into a heavy cloak.

He tried not to feel like a thief as he wrapped the Master Sword tightly in a ripped bedsheet. It would not fit into his own sheath, too wide and too long.

He stayed long enough to write a short note, an apology and assurances that he would come home. There was no temple to Ordona on the grounds; he did not think Hylia would be impressed by a sacrifice from him. He did not join Link and the Queen in their devotions. He had one goddess here, and she slept just down the hall.

The few servants moving about only nodded to him. They were used to his restless habits. He kept his stride slow, yawning for effect.

He caught a servant by the sleeve.

“Leave this for the Lady Balka, please.” The woman took the folded paper and bowed, tucking it into her apron.

“Yes, your highness.”

 

Balka sat up, gasping from the dream. A flash of images, fear, pain.

The woman drawing back her curtains stilled. “Lady?”

She shook her head, rubbing her hair off her sweaty forehead. “I am well.”

“Begging your pardon, lady, but the Prince Enon has a message for you.”

She blinked at the woman. She held out a piece of paper. Balka took it. Read it and sat frozen with shock, fear, anger. Yes, anger, realizing what he meant to do.

She threw back her blankets. “How long ago did he give this to you?”

The woman clutched her rags to her chest. “Just moments, my lady. He was heading out of the Royal Wing.”

Balka threw a robe over her shoulders. Hopefully, most were still asleep, the sun not yet risen. She padded barefoot through her family’s rooms, running as fast as she dared.

Where was the blasted man? There! His familiar form went through a doorway on the floor below. To the stables. Did she have time?

She ran back to her rooms and surprised the poor woman once more. “Help me pack! Hurry!”

The woman did, clumsy from inexperience and Balka’s squirming impatience. “T-trousers, my lady?”

“Yes! All of them!” She wiggled into a stained tunic, dusty from long disuse in her bottom drawer. It was much tighter than she remembered, one of his secreted away for their adventures so her dresses would not betray their activities. She stamped into a pair of boots. The woman handed her a lumpy bundle. Balka took all her money and swore the woman to secrecy.

“Yes, my lady,” the woman said unhappily.

“When they realize I am gone, you may tell them in good conscience that I have decided to travel to my home,” she told her. “But _not_ until they realize, not a moment before!”

“Yes, my lady.”

Balka pressed a handful of coins on her. “Thank you. Now, go about your work.”

She kept her head down as she followed his path. She attracted a few strange looks, but with her cloak over her hair and eyes averted, she hoped they would think her a messenger, maybe a boy in her boots and trousers.

He was no longer in the stables. She ordered a mount for herself, asking after him.

“The prince? Left some quarter of an hour ago, I’d say, miss. Did you need-?”

“I have an urgent message for him, from the Consort,” she lied. “Which way did he go?”

The man shrugged. “After the bridge, he turned along the Piscean road. Should I send riders out to find-?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I will find him.”

How? She mounted, uncomfortable on the frisky animal. It tossed its head and snorted as she directed it to the stable yard. Shouts from behind her sped her on her way, their words swallowed by the clatter of horseshoes on the stones.

The morning was actually a little cool, the mists from the lake rising over the city. Workers were just going about their rounds, waving greeting and commenting on the sunrise tinting the east.

“A man on horse,” she asked one. He peered around the barrel he balanced on one shoulder. “Did he go by, just moments ago?”

The man squinted at her. “A while, yes. That way.” He pointed. She thanked him and trotted on. A few had seen him, others had not. But he seemed to be keeping his path true for New Crossing. The gates would have just been opened.

She halted in the middle of the bridge and stood in her stirrups. From this vantage point she looked for him in the outer city, maybe riding along the lake road. Nothing.

She asked again at the crossroad. A carter noted he had passed a rider moving quickly away from the city. Could not tell her details, but thought it was a man with packs on his saddle. She thanked him and went the way he pointed, praying she was not on a fool’s errand.

And what if she couldn’t find him? What then? Keep riding? She had money, clothes, a cloak. She could stay away for a few days, try out this adventuring thing. And then? Creep back to the palace, face the wrath of her family, their shock at her behavior?

Her mother would find her a husband the next moment. Push her to marry, to settle down. Would the Queen support her? She knew they expected her to marry Enon. Yet, Zelda was not a woman who bowed to anyone’s pressure. Except her husband’s.

She stifled a sneeze at the dust on the road. There were more wagons. She continued to ask about a rider. His path never strayed, but he was moving fast. Putting distance behind him. She followed doggedly, wondering what she would do when this horse tired.

It grew hot as the sun rose. She pulled back her hood and managed to stuff her cloak under a strap. Her saddle was not made for rough travel. Another thing she would have to remedy. And her stomach growled, but she dared not stop. He likely had provisions and could ride for much longer than her. She could not count on the passers-by to guide her much longer.

She drew curious looks as mid-morning passed. She had moved past the outer environs and into farming land, orchards, pastures. She stopped by a small copse with a stream and let the horse drink and graze for a time.

“Miss, are you alright?” A driver pulled his team up, watching her with concern.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “Just resting.”

He frowned at her. She smiled, knowing her appearance to be an aberration. A fine saddle and horse, but a worn tunic. Glossy boots and her hair a wild mess around her head.

“Have a good day, then,” he said slowly.

“And you, friend.”

She mounted and hurried on. A roadside tavern had seen him go by. The barman scowled at her, the same confusion in his eyes. “Are you out here alone, miss?”

“No,” she lied. “My brother. He forgot something. Always does, stupid man.”

The man grunted. “Have a bite, then?”

She thanked him and accepted the crusty roll he handed her. She declined a rest. “Must catch him up.”

“Good luck, he was riding like the wind of Faroe.”

It had to be her hair, she reasoned, as others waved her to stop, questioning her passage. There was not much in her body that declared her female. The horse was tired, keeping up its trot with disciplined strength. She found an irrigation ditch in the middle afternoon and let it rest again.

The water shone brightly. She squinted against her reflection. She took a deep breath, raised her knife, and cut off her braid.  Cut more, all of it. What she could see in the ripples was ragged and tousled. She kept cutting, until it felt even all over.

Her scalp felt cold, even in the hot afternoon. And itchy, as the cut ends blew in the wind. She splashed water over her head, shivering as it trickled down her bare neck.

The horse nosed her, asking for treats. She apologized for her lack of foresight and mounted once again. If she couldn’t find him by nightfall, she would turn another way, ride until her money gave out. Maybe she could work. Doing what, she had no idea. Or maybe just sell the horse and walk from there.

She resolutely pushed these worries from her mind. She had to find Enon. That was all.

 

She nearly rode into him, half-asleep in the dusk.

“Stand!” he commanded sharply. She drew up, her horse too tired to baulk at her clumsy handling of the reins. “Who are you? Why are you following me?”

She gulped. For all her frantic chase, she had not thought of what to say if she did find him.

“Speak!”

It was a harsh voice she had never heard from him. She had to swallow, her mouth dry from dust and fear.

“Enon?”

“ _Balka?”_

She sat still as he stared at her. He made to speak, but no sound came out. Then he strode over to her and yanked her out of the saddle.

“What are you doing here? What in Ordona’s _nol a zara orrelak zerbai teg ausartze_!”  He shook her, growling in his native tongue. She pressed her lips together and waited for his scold to run out.

 _“Zer nahn da hau ta?_ _Zer_ -? What-?”

She jerked from his hands and lifted her chin. “You promised we would do this together.”

“Do what?”

“Adventure. Travel.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. It was longer than hers, now. He spoke haltingly. “You can’t- you don’t understand, Balka!”

“I-”

“You _have_ to go back. This is not some childish adventure. I cannot take you- This is madness, Balka. Go home!”

“No!”

“You _will_. Go home or I will-”

“I am not yours to command,” she snapped.

“I am the Prince,” he said in that same harsh tone.

“Not my prince,” she retorted. “You have no authority over me.”

She heard the creak of leather as his fists clenched. “Please, go home, Balka. _Please_.”

“I thought we were friends.”

His whole body seemed to tense, to gather in the twilight. “As your _friend_ , I am _asking_ you to go home.” She cringed from the snarl in his words.

“You promised-”

“We are not children, Balka!”

“I want to go-”

“Those were stupid games, nothing more.” He stabbed a finger back down the road. “Your place is with your family, at the palace.”

“And what about yours?” she demanded. “Why do you get to choose, and I don’t?”

She knew his answer; even though he did not speak it. She sneered at him. “So much for your bold words, Enon. Telling me I was just as good as any boy, that I could do anything I wanted, that my life was my own. Or is that only your _Ordonian_ women? I’m just a stupid Hylian girl.”

“Balka,” he protested.

“You never thought I was good enough, did you? You never thought of me as an equal, just something to possess.”

His gestures were sharp and angry. “I apologized, Balka. I was wrong and I admitted it.”

“But even now-”

“What kind of man would I be if I let the woman I love ride into danger?” he demanded.

“If you really love me, then let me choose what _I_ want!”

“I did.” His voice faltered and her chest tightened. “I could have asked your father, could have pressured you into it. We both know you would have agreed.”

She hated that he was right. That she had been grateful for his strength when she had little of her own.

“Is that my only option, then? To marry you or someone else? Is that all I’m good for, to be someone’s breed cow?”

“ _Balka!_ ”

She would not let his shocked hurt quell her. “You knew I wanted this, to travel, to see what was out here. You _knew_ I hated living in the palace, hated being carted from one place to another with no say in my future. You told me you supported me, that you would help me. Or was that promise dependent on my willingness to _dost_ you?”

He choked on his answer, visibly appalled by her expletive. Like he hadn’t muttered it in her presence thousands of times, along with a thesaurus of others. Another thing he thought her too delicate to know.

“Balka,” he pleaded. “Please!”

“I will not go back. If you won’t let me come with you, then I will go on alone. You don’t -you can’t – understand, Enon. You can’t know what it’s like, being trapped, having no choice.”

“You’re being a melodramatic brat!” he stormed. “Your sister, the Queen, all you had to do was tell them, and they would let you do whatever you wanted!”

She threw up her hands. “Fine. Go, do whatever stupid man thing you feel you have to do alone. I should have known you thought me too weak to come with.”

“I don’t think”-

“You’re a selfish ass, Enon.”

“I only want-”

“You said you’d help me, do anything.”

“Not like-!”

“Or are you afraid you can’t control yourself?”

She regretted the words the moment they passed her lips. He drew back as if she had slapped him. He took a breath. Another.

“Enon, I didn’t mean…”

She did not recognize his voice when he finally spoke.

“I’ve never struck a woman in anger, but if you slander my House again, I will beat you as I would a disrespectful _Ordonian_ girl.”

“I know you would never-”

He turned away. He was breathing hard, his body stiff in the gathering darkness. “I can’t take you home,” he said quietly.

She tried to speak calmly. She had crossed a line and his cold anger scared her.

“Your note said a threat? To the Queen?”

“A dream Cantor had. A vision, maybe.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. It will be dangerous. I might not be able to protect you.”

“But, why you?”

Enon touched the sword at his shoulder. “I cannot let him go.”

The Prince, she realized. His prince must have decided to find this threat, to challenge it.

“The princess was born last night,” he told her. “He is needed there, his family needs him there. I will go in his place.”

She felt he was not speaking to her, convincing himself, that what he did was right.

“He will follow you when he finds you gone.”

“Which is why we need to keep moving.” He went to his horse. “If you’re coming, you’ll have to keep up. They will be looking for both of us, now.”

She gathered her horse’s reins. “My parents will think I’ve gone back to Brynn.”

He seemed to consider his words. “You know if we’re caught, they will demand you marry me.”

She knew well enough her parents’ fury. “Then they will be disappointed.”

He grunted. “Come on. We’ll walk until the moon sets.”


	4. Into the Desert

Enon watched the sunrise and wondered how he had got into this mess.

Balka lay asleep, wrapped in both their cloaks. He had settled his over her as she stirred fitfully in the early hours. Something he doubted she would appreciate when she woke, but unable to help himself.

He pressed his hands into his eyes. He had been unable to sleep. Why had he let her come? He should have tied her up and dumped her at the first farm they passed. Claimed she was his runaway sister, paid them to cart her back to the city.

When his prince caught him up, what would he say? That he had stolen the Sword of Light and went haring off into the wilderness so the prince would not have to face this menace? That was sure to be a pleasant meeting.

Maybe they would send Sheik after him, or Sorrint. The soldier might sympathize with him and only beat him a little before dragging him home. And Zelda; what fury waited him there? He had promised to never do this again, yet here he was, running off from his family, racing straight into a danger he was not prepared for.

The horses had grazed the ground clear at their pickets. He led them both to the small creek tucked behind some trees. They drank greedily. He filled the water bags and settled them in place.

She was awake when he came back. He stilled, seeing her for the first time in the light.

She saw his expression and looked away. “People kept stopping me. Because I was a girl.”

She still looked like a girl, her face too finely boned, her lips too full. Goddess, how he wanted those lips under his.

“You look like a haystack.”

She tried to smile and it was pitiful. “Best I could do with a knife and pool of water.”

He tied up the horses and drew his slim boot knife. “Come here.”

She sat at his feet. It physically hurt him to shave her head, to feel the silky strands of her hair fall away. She rubbed her scalp with a curious hand.

“It’s fuzzy.”

He grunted, wiping his blade clean. “You’ll sunburn, so keep your head covered.” All her skin was pale compared to his. She had told him of the hours she spent hiking at her home. Yet she wasn’t tanned. Unless the skin under her clothes was even paler.

He walked away, kicking at rocks. Hating that her cruel words in the darkness were a little bit true. How could he do this, having her so near him? Was he really so undisciplined? So weak?

“There’s some tack bread in the pack,” he heard himself say. “And dried fruit. Keep an eye out for early berries as we ride.”

She ate a little and let her horse lip the crumbs from her hand. It was a lady’s horse, not built for rough travel like his.

“You’ll need a different horse.”

“I know. But she’ll manage for now, won’t you, sweet girl.”

The mare tossed her mane. Enon gathered up his supplies and mounted. “Let’s go.”

It was a long day of silence and a long night of hissing winds and insects. The barrenness of the Watch had few advantages, but one was the lack of bugs. He hated bugs.

She added some leaves to their small fire and a pungent smell wafted over them.

“Sage, lavender,” she told him. “It will help with the biting ones.”

He made some sort of noise and rolled over to sleep.

He spent a lot of the next days grunting at her. And looking for pursuit, eyes strained to the horizon.

She did not speak, not unless he had specific question or a suggestion. He was glad for it. After two years of wary silence, this felt wrong. Uncomfortable. Intimate.

He hated that he liked the sound of her breathing while she slept. The way she still tried to brush back her hair or flip it from her collar. Her little smiles when she found a flower she liked or watched a hawk hover over them.

That she seemed completely unconcerned with this. With them. With the danger.

The mountains of Eldin rose before them. The angry volcano gushed smoke into the heavens, as it had for centuries.

They consulted his map.

“Should we risk going through Goron territory?” he wondered. “They are not friendly to Link.”

“They are allied to Hyrule,” she countered.

Enon grimaced. “A technicality. When’s the last time you heard of someone vacationing in Eldin?”

She traced the roads marked in red ink. “It would help if we knew where we were going.”

He didn’t. Had no idea, other than it was off the subcontinent. To do that they would have to cross either the Eldins, the Hebras, or the desert.

“We don’t have the gear for the Hebras,” he said flatly. “We’ll go around the Mountain and pass through Gerudo territory.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Forgetting something?”

He hadn’t. “I’ll make it work.”

“Enon, no one would believe you are a woman, even among the Gerudo.”

“The prohibition only applies to the city.”

She sniffed and folded the map away. “Lead on, then.”

 

He hated walking in sand. It slid from under his boots, making every step twice the work. Balka fared little better, sweating under her cloak to protect her fair skin.

They joined a trade caravan, following the loaded horses as they swayed down the hard-packed road. It was dusty and hot.

“At least I don’t have any hair,” Balka muttered when they paused in the shade of a rock tower. “Should have done this years ago.”

Enon fingered the lock of hair he had secreted away in his pack. Knowing her and her stubbornness, she would keep her hair this short.

It was cute, actually. Once it grew out a little, he could see it curling around her ears, framing her head like a golden aura.

She blinked at him and he realized he was staring at her. He stood and stuffed the water skein into his saddle bag.

“Ready?”

The traders laughed and joked as the days passed. The sun pressed on their shoulders mercilessly. The horses sweated and they made slow, steady progress along the trade road.

The Gerudo in the caravan made much of Balka. They invited her to their campfire and admired her fair skin.

“But so tiny! You must eat more, or no _voe_ will want you!”

Enon kept his face to his own bowl. She giggled with them and returned smelling of their exotic perfume.

“They gave me this lotion, to protect my skin.” She brandished a clay jar. “Says it will prevent a sunburn.”

He touched the clear paste. It was slick and smelled of aloe and sunfruit, jasmine, rose.

“Might steal some myself.”

“Still trying to pass as a _vai_?”

He smiled a little. “Get some sleep.”

She rolled into her cloak, the air already feeling chilly as the heat radiated off the sand. She slathered the lotion on her face the next morning. He reminded her to get her ears.

The caravan set out soon after dawn. They turned downhill and moved into the low desert.

Enon first noticed the horses. His twitched its ears forward, head up. He soothed the mare, but she snorted and crab-walked away from him.

Balka was having trouble, too. Her mare was skittish at the best of times.

“Whoa, whoa, girl.”

Enon gripped the bridle from her off side as she plunged. He held her down, her eyes rolling.

“Something’s spooked her. What-?”

Screams from the front of the caravan. The horses bunched, those in front panicking. Shouts for help, and the Gerudo drew their curving swords.

“Stay here, I’ll-”

Balka screamed as a shadow leapt from the sand. Enon shoved her aside, narrowly missing being impaled on a short spear.

The _crytch_ hissed at him, dancing on the sand. Another threatened him from behind. He had no choice.

He drew the Sword.

The sun gleamed golden-white on the blade. It made a humming sound as it cut the air, a hiss and snap at the point. The _crytch_ fell back, wary with recognition. The Shadow knew this blade.

He had never fought these kind before. They towered over him, reptilian and snarling. He bared his teeth in unconscious challenge.

The Sword was weightless in his hand, almost pleasurable to hold. The _crytch_ attacked with guttural cries. He deflected its stab, Sword arching up and across. It fell, gutted. He whirled in time to catch the leap of the second on the point.

Leaving them to twitch their death throes, he ran through the frantic horses. Some lay dead, others kicked at any who came close. He caught one and swung into the saddle as it bolted.

It was not a warhorse, but it served well enough. He took another of the strange _crytch_ in his first pass, beheaded.

The Gerudo had formed a circle, weapons out. Any _crytch_ who came close fell, hacked apart. Enon ran down another and they broke, fleeing across the sands.

He turned the horse back to the caravan as the last tail slithered over a dune and out of sight.

Enon reined in by the Gerudo. “Injuries?”

“Minor,” their leader said.

“Will you secure the perimeter? Gather the horses?”

The woman squinted up at him, his head not much higher than hers. She smiled. “Yes, soldier.”

She called to her sisters. They shouted affirmation and trotted to catch the horses milling about. Enon kicked his mount and rode back along the caravan.

There were other injuries, but none serious. A spear thrust in a leg, a broken arm from a fall. Balka knelt by a man, helping wrap a slice on his arm.

Enon wanted to jump down and embrace her. He stopped the horse, fighting to keep it still.

“Balka?”

She looked up, her hood thrown back. “I am well, Enon.”

One of the _crytch_ was still moving. He dismounted and ended it with a quick downward thrust.

“What are these things?” he asked.

The man with the bleeding arm grimaced as Balka tightened his bandage.

“Lizalfos,” he said. “Ambush hunters, travel in packs.”

Enon cleaned the Sword and sheathed it. His mount tried to scramble back, jerking at the reins. He hushed it. It reared, eyes rolling.

“The horses always this spooked by them?”

The man shrugged. “They’ll settle down.”

Enon jumped as her hand touched his arm. He tried not to shrug her off, but there was really no other way to interpret his motion.

“Get everyone back together,” he told her.

“You’re bleeding.”

He wiped the sticky liquid from his neck. “Not mine.”

The horse was still fighting him, snorting and plunging. He had to release it. Its hooves clattered on the hard-packed road as it circled.

“Easy, easy!” He grabbed at the dragging reins. “Easy, now.”

The Gerudo were back, herding the stressed horses. They were having the same trouble he was.

“Why are they- do you feel that?”

“Enon, what is it?”

He tried to listen over the noise of the horses, the shouts. Under his boots, the ground trembled.

“That! Did you feel it?”

“No.”

The gritty sand strewn over the road visibly moved as the tremors shook the earth.

The humans became suddenly still. The man with the bleeding arm paled under his tan.

“Norrix,” he said grimly.

“What is a-?”

A horse screamed, pulled to the ground. Dirt flew as the animal fought, its back legs buried in the sand. Enon stayed only long enough to see a whirling maw of teeth.

He grabbed Balka’s hand and dragged her after him. He could hear others following. A horse galloped past. Next to him, a rolling swell of sand rose up and veered toward the manic animal. A sucking roar and the horse was swallowed beneath the dunes.

“This way!” There was darker patch, a weathered steppe.

He chanced a look back. Two, three rippling mounds chased them. A man lagged behind the rest.

“Keep going!” he shouted at Balka, swinging her past him. “There! Those rocks!”

He turned and drew an arrow, his bow taut. The man screamed for help. Behind him, the mound rose, revealing that circle of teeth and a dark, shining throat. Enon loosed.

The norrix howled, curling in on itself, thrashing on the surface. The man lumbered past him. Enon grabbed his arm and pulled him along.

The others had reached the rocks and were scrambling up. The two other norrix circled their injured fellow. It righted itself and dove back below the surface, kicking sand high into the air.

Enon shoved the man up to safety.

“Enon!” Balka shrieked. He turned and loosed again. The same one? Its mouth was full of green ichor. It jerked back, rearing it shapeless head up out of the sand.

Enon jumped forward, Sword ready. It impaled itself on his uplifted point.

He twisted free, gripping the Sword tightly, its singing vibration humming up his arm. The beast shuddered and echoing howls from the others rose up into the heat.

“Hurry!”

He was dragged onto the rocks as the ground beneath him fell away. The reddish bedrock shook as a norrix slammed into it.

The caravan members gasped for breath, huddled at the center of the outcropping. It was a flat round of stone, listing down on one end.

“What do we do now?” Enon shouted over the noise of the creatures. It was an odd, grating sound, as their armored bodies shoved through the sand.

One of the Gerudo answered. “We wait.”

“Until?”

“Until they tire of us.”

“How long?”

She shrugged. “A day. Or two?”

Enon looked to the sun. It was just overhead; a long time to sit unprotected in this climate, no water, no food. Back some three hundred, four hundred feet, their packs lay strewn over the road. Horses roamed aimlessly. The _crytch_ he had slain lay limp on the ground. The sand around it was dark with its greenish blood.

He could kill them. But he needed a distraction, something to get them above ground. He palmed a rock and threw it. It hit the sand and rolled. Another.

One of the norrix veered off. It moved under the sand as fish did in shallow water, tail driving forward with powerful strokes. The rock shivered and was pulled beneath as the beast roamed under it.

“I need something bigger,” Enon said, half to himself. “Something to draw them to the surface.” He had nineteen arrows, more than enough. He slew _nikuhs_ with them, the steel heads punching through even their armored hides.

“I’m not being bait!” someone cried. Their voices rose in a chorus of panic. They clutched at each other as the rock shuddered under them.

Enon cast a quick look over group, evaluating his options.

“You!” he said, pointing at a Gerudo. “How far can you throw that shield?”

She smiled grimly. “Which direction, soldier?”

How to make it work?

“Throw it down there.” He pointed into a depression behind them. “Throw rocks at it, make it ring.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Catch a horse.”

“Enon, _no-!”_

“Do it!”

The Gerudo chucked the shield. It caught the sun and tumbled down the dune, ringing as it hit rocks. The circling norrix called to each other.

The Gerudo lent their impressive strength to the task. The metal shield clanged like discordant bells. The norrix sheered off to investigate and Enon jumped.

He hit the sand and skidded, coming up running. He heard Balka shout behind him.

“Hit the rock! More noise! Distract them!”

The pack horses were trained to stay together, so moved in a nervous bunch along the road. The harder earth gave them some protection, as well as the fact that all _crytch_ preferred the taste of human flesh.

Was the rumbling coming closer? Enon sprinted as fast as he could for the horses. Half didn’t have saddles, their packs lost when they bolted. Goods and packages littered the ground.

He jumped in front of the herd. They veered sharply, startled. He grabbed the first stirrup he saw and swung up into the saddle.

The horse bucked, smelling the blood on him. He kicked it and turned its head along the road.

A thunder deeper than the pounding of hooves. Dropping the reins, he drew an arrow and sighted behind him.

“Come on!” he growled, knowing he had only moments on this untrained horse. That horrid, sucking roar, a spray of sand, and he loosed into the hungry mouth.

It squealed and its brother answered. The horse fought his command to turn. Jabbing his next arrow into its haunches, Enon forced it around. He held the arrow in his teeth to draw the Sword.

The divine steel cut through the norrix’s shell-like carapace as easily as his knife through her hair.

The last norrix came for him head on. He grabbed a second arrow, drawing them with a particular twist. The horse, thank Ordona, did not turn, mad with fear.

The twin arrowheads glinted before they burrowed into the soft flesh inside the mouth of the creature. The horse jumped and Enon lost his seat. He managed to land upright, turning the fall into a roll.

The Sword rejoiced in its purpose, ending another _crytch,_ another spawning of the shadow slain.

Silence fell over the dunes. Enon faltered, his body realizing the abuse he had just inflicted on it. The others were streaming toward him, shouting, waving. He sat down on the ground and breathed deep.


	5. The Voe'sava

The oasis was a miracle, a jewel in the middle of a lifeless sea. Balka settled against a crate, her bowl of food cupped in her hands. Fresh meat grilled over the fire, pungent sauce, fluffy rice. It was a welcome meal after the chaos of the past day and a half.

They had travelled long into the night, putting as much space between them and the carcasses slumped along the trade road as possible. Monsters would scavenge their own, if no other meat offered. First light found them within sight of the oasis and at evening settled in for a long overdue rest.

Now that the caravan was safely inside the oasis walls and its members refreshed, they could have their victory celebration.

Enon protested. The Hylian traders had declared him a hero. This feast was in his honor and they were composing tasteless ballads on his name. Unfortunately, ‘Enon’ rhymed with ‘Ordon,’ making it too easy for them.

The Gerudo were equally impressed by his prowess in battle. If he escaped a Hylian, it was only to turn and find a flirtatious Gerudo leaning down to him.

Balka laughed to herself as he dodged the slightly aggressive advances of one of the towering ladies of the desert. Some Hylian took pity on him and slung an arm over his shoulder.

“Come, brave Enon! Let us drink to your deeds of valor!”

Enon’s self-deprecation was lost into the swell of music and laughter. When he finally staggered back to her in the early hours, he brought the sharp, sweet smell of the Gerudo’s palm fruit alcohol mixed with perfume and smoke.

He grinned at her, listing slightly. She noticed he still wore his sword, even though half his clothes were missing.

“Where’s your tunic?”

He waved over his shoulder. “One of the Gerudo took it.” His accent was thick, his r’s long and rolling. “Risa? Resa?”

“You’re drunk.”

“ _Ta, sejr_ ,” he agreed. _Yes, much._

“You promised the Queen,” she scolded. He had lip paint smeared on his face. And neck. And torso. Heat washed up her face. “What _have_ you been doing?”

He blinked a few times, looking over the dregs of the party.

“I forget.”

 _He wants to forget_.

Balka jumped up to help him as he tottered.

“Lie down, Enon. Before you fall down.”

He obeyed, stretching out on the soft grasses by the pool that feed this verdant reprieve. She arranged his cloak beneath his head. His hand closed around her wrist as she reached for the buckle of his baldric.

He raised her fingers to his lips. “ _Yesbua_ _Ordona_ , _Balka,_ _mai te zait ta’luan.”_

She drew her hand free to poke his nose. “You’re talking nonsense. Go to sleep.”

“It was that _zulatu_. _Nahn_ do drink it, _astana_ , _nahn jhret edari_ …” His mumbles faded into snores.

She curled up in her own cloak. The cool air off the water chilled her still tender scalp.

 _Yesbua_ _Ordona_ , _Balka,_ _mai te zait ta’luan._

Great Ordona, Balka, my arrow’s flight.

It was a clumsy translation, but the best she could do.  But she knew what it meant.

 _I love you_.

Not just love. Devotion. Honor. Sacrifice. His life’s purpose, as his arrows sought their targets. Leave it to Ordon to express their tenderest feelings with metaphors of war.

She lay still in the night and listened to his slow breaths, rejoicing in each one he was alive take.

The caravan woke slowly and painfully the next morning. Late morning. Enon sat up and groaned, mouth twisted as he moved clumsily.

“How did you sleep?” she asked sweetly. He glared at her.

“How many _crytch_ did you kill?” he shot back. He limped to the pool. He laid on his stomach and dunked his head right in the clear waters. He rubbed his face and grimaced at the red smears on his palms.

“Maybe you won’t have trouble getting into Gerudo Town,” she said. She passed him a clean rag. “They seem quite enamored. Missed some, just there.”

It was hard to tell under his tan, but she thought he blushed as he wiped the make-up from his skin. Not just red, but the blue, gold, and black the Gerudo used to color their slanting eyes.

“Where’s my shirt?”

“Risa has it.”

“Who?”

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or stamp her foot. “Or maybe Resa. You mentioned them both.”

Definitely blushing. “I’ll go find it.”

“I’ll be here.”

He half scowled, half smirked. Confused and a little embarrassed and…proud? She wasn’t sure, but his stride was awful jaunty for a man with a hangover.

He did find it, safe in the clutches of a ravishing Gerudo beauty. She fluttered her darkly colored eyelashes at him, her veil concealing the rich crimson of her mouth. He was tall, but not tall enough to grab it dangling from her fingers, stretched above her head.

Balka watched him wheedle it out of her, chuckling as the other women observed this interchange with sly glee.

“No and no!” the Gerudo protested. “This is no fit attire for the high desert. You need _proper_ garments, worthy of a warrior such as yourself.”

“Risa,” he said, cajoling.

“What is this? Linen? Single Ply? Cross weaved? Bah! Peasant wear. Come, let me educate you.”

“I’d rather keep my clothes,” he said, with only a hint of desperation. “On my body, if you don’t mind.”

She gasped, two fingers touching her cheek in the Gerudo gesture of shock. “Noble Enon, do you suggest _I_ was the one to undress you?”

“For educational purposes, _ta fin sejr?_ ” he retorted.

She laughed and let him have his tunic. Balka laughed, too, even as she wondered. So, he _did_ remember some of what happened last night? Or was it only the particularly memorable moments? She supposed being forcibly undressed by a seven-foot tall warrior goddess would make an impression, intoxicated or not.

Enon returned, hopping as he pulled on a boot. His cheeks were fiery red and no lip paint in sight.

“You should take them up on their offer,” Balka told him as he straightened his collar. He unbuckled his sword belt only long enough to settle his tunic in place. “For the clothes, that is,” she added innocently at his swift glance.

“Have you seen _voe_ attire?”

“Saves time,” she mused.

“ _Zer ten_?”

“You think this is the last time they’ll try to…what were they wanting? To study Ordonian anatomy?”

He knelt to tighten his boot lacings. “ _Ordona yesu ve_ , _ta_!”

It waited on the tip of her tongue. A scathing comment, a parallel drawn. How unpleasant it would be to be invaded in such a way, viewed as a desirable object and nothing more.

But she did not doubt he would beat her as he promised. She knew little of Ordonian culture, but all Hyrule knew they had no reservations about corporeal punishment. Savages, they snickered. Cruel, uncultured. But it had been Ordon’s might and discipline that had saved them not very long ago.

And…she watched him gather his things. A smile played on his lips. And maybe he didn’t view it as unpleasant. Maybe Resa or Risa or whoever she was, maybe her interest wasn’t unwelcome.

“Ready?”

Their horses had been gathered with the rest still alive after the attack. She went to the little mare. It nuzzled her.

She pressed her face into the rough coat, breathing in the scent of the animal, the leather of her saddle, the sand, the water in the green pool.

“You alright?” Enon asked.

“Yes, of course.” She straightened and mounted. “Let’s get to Gerudo Town.”

 

Even for a hero, the prohibition stood firm. Enon dismounted with the other Hylian men. Balka hesitated as he joked with them, leading their animals into a corral of stone and brick.

He looked back at her, a confused frown crossing his face.

“Aren’t you going?”

She nodded and waved. He raised a hand, already stripping the bridle from his mare.

“You are in for a treat!” Risa trilled, striding smoothly next to her. “Your first visit to Gerudo Town!”

The _voe_ lodgings were some half a mile from the walled city. Along the connecting road, vendors hawked wares from tent stalls. Sizzling coals wafted the scent of meat and sweets through the dry desert air. The sun burnished everything a brilliant, bronzey gold.

Two towering guards stood at either side of the main gate. Unlike their laughing sisters, they glared at everyone who dared approach. A man came a bit too close, leading a pack mule around another’s stall.

Spears leveled, their points menacing. The man backed away, stammering apologies.

“But, why?” Balka asked.

Risa snorted. “Men! They are good for two things, fair Balka.”

She did not ask for an elaboration. She was sure it would be graphic.

Once through the gate, she shivered with excitement. She had dreamed of coming here since she first heard of the forbidden city. One could not help feeling small among the Gerudo. Though they varied in height and build as much as any other race, she saw them all as what she was not: strong, beautiful, independent women. Everything she dreamed of being.

She swallowed her self-doubt and genuinely appreciated their effusive admiration of her fair skin and pale hair.

“But why so short?” one asked, touching the cropped ends of her hair. “I have seen no other _vai hylia_ like this?”

“I did it, so they would think I was a boy.”

The woman laughed and laughed. “ _You_ could never be mistaken as _voe_.”

“Come!” Risa commanded. “You will meet my sister.”

They moved through the city. It was not as large as Castle Town, nor as crowded. But hundreds of women lived here, worked here. There were the same armories, butchers, leatherworkers, jewelers.

“Here, tiny one.”

“ _Sav’aaq!”_ A woman came forward from the shadows within. “Risa!” They spoke quickly in their language until Risa switched back to Hylian. “But, I forget! This is Balka, partner of noble Enon.” Balka wasn’t sure she liked the inflection Risa put on the word ‘partner.’

“The _voe_ who slew the norrix?” the woman asked.

“He is my friend, yes,” Balka said.

“This is Dala, my sister.”

“An honor to meet the friend of such a warrior.” There was that weight again. She could not stop her bristle. Was she nothing without him? Did she not have her own value?

Risa’s smile was knowing. “Since he refused my offer, I extend it to you.”

“What offer?” Balka asked half timid, half suspicious.

“I offered him the best of Gerudo, clothing fit for a king! We must repay the debt. Come see.”

Risa undid her pack and displayed the contents. Silks and gauzy fabrics in all colors. Pearls tucked into a small pouch. A box filled with glittering stones.

“You must be exhausted, tiny one! Follow me!”

The women’s energy and stature mirrored their graciousness. Balka stammered weak protests as they pressed her into a small bathing room, as they stripped her down and scrubbed her. They clucked over her bruises and rubbed sweet smelling oil into her skin.

Draped in a robe, she sat gingerly on a stool and sipped the cold drink they pressed into her hands. Hydromelon, she thought, sunfruit. And after, a hint of that same fermented palm. She tried to set it aside, but their beaming smiles made her drink much more than she would normally have dared.

Enon was right. It was dangerous stuff. Smooth, sweet. Powerful.

“I am grateful to him,” Risa said as she bustled around her workroom. “These were nearly a year’s worth of trading, searching for the best for offer.”

Balka made a noise, not sure what to say.

“He is a true warrior,” Risa continued as she laid silks across her arm. “Selfless, valiant.”

Balka shrugged. “I suppose.”

“One hears stories of men like him, but rarely meets them.”

Balka scrubbed a bead of water from her robe. She did, though. Enon, Sorrint. Link. Giants, legends walking among men. If she had met him now for the first time, what would she feel? How would she see him?

She took another sip hide her flush. She knew well enough she would fall at his feet. His laugh, the way he played with his collar when he was reading. How he looked at her, hungry and admiring. It made her hot all over.

“ _Sufu!”_ Risa declared. “Blue! Come!”

Balka stood obediently. She squeaked when they drew the robe off her shoulders, leaving her bare in the cool room.

They ignored her nakedness, measuring and fitting. Their fingers flew, sewing ribbons and notions.

The silk was cool and slick against her skin. Not only pale, but flabby, she thought, next to their hardened physiques. And not curvaceous, either, like her unfairly beautiful sister. After eight years of marriage, Sorrint still looked at Misly with the same adoring pride.

 _As straight as a deku-stick._ Her mother had said that more than once about her and Han. Her older sister had looked at their parent with bemused confusion.

“So?” Han had said.

But Balka knew what the woman meant, what she bemoaned. The fashion was for woman like Misly, like the Queen. Curving, lush, nubile.

Balka was often mistaken for a boy growing up, splattered in mud and roaming the hills of her parents’ orchards. She failed to see what it was about her now that made such a mistake impossible.

Balka started to protest as they tilted her face to apply cosmetics.

“Hush! Or it will smear.”

The lip paint tasted of rosewater. Her eyelashes felt heavy.

“Why do all this work and then cover it up?” The gauze veil fluttered as she talked.

“One must not show a man _everything_. One must keep some secrets.”

Balka tried not to cringe as she examined her reflection in a polished brass mirror.

There were not many secrets about her right now. Her midriff showed, from her ribs to her hips. The silk trousers floated from there to her knees. She cleared her throat nervously.

“Um, Risa?”

“Yes, tiny one?”

“Um, is there more?” By Hylia’s name, she had only one layer over her chest. Nothing between her and the world but a flimsy bit of deep blue silk. Why cover her wrists and neck when you could see all the rest of her!

“Why would there be more? Were you not hot in all that linen?”

She had been, sweltering. Another unfair norm, that men could strip down as they pleased and no one turned an eye. Well, depending on the man.

“I s-suppose.”

“You are ravishing, exquisite! Come! Let us eat!”

She pulled on the slippers they gave her and went out into the bustling city.

 

Enon milled around with the other men. The traders joined the shouting throng that seemed to only increase as they evening advanced. The market outside the walls held goods from Hyrule, Eldin, even wool from Ordon.

He touched a skein of dark gray sheering, still oily with lanolin. The smell of it washed memories over him, of his family, their wide, low house at the end of a curving path. The creaking of the waterwheel behind. His mother’s sternness, hiding a gentle nature beneath, a façade built to keep the family strong after his father’s death.

He had loved the dark rooms, shaded by the forest. The age worn furniture smooth under his hands. Waking to watch the cows milked, the soft, warm dirt under his feet as he ran to the city for school.

“Soldier?”

Enon blinked back to the heat and noise of the market.

“This way!” It was Fuki, the man he had saved. He was the brother of the caravan leader and had stuck to his side ever since.

Enon followed him, the shorter man’s head bobbing energetically as he viewed the goods on offer. He spoke rapidly in several languages, joking with the sellers. They always passed him a sample, a swatch.

Enon munched a strange yellow fruit, soft with a firm peel, and tried to keep up.

They were looking at some hammered brass medallions when Fuki let out a long whistle.

“Prepare yourself, soldier. That girl of yours is coming.”

“My _cousin_ ,” Enon corrected. Technically true, by marriage.

“I hope so, ‘cause if she your sister, you be begging your Goddess for mercy.”

Forewarned, Enon did pray to his Goddess for strength. She laughed at him.

Balka saw him and waved. “Enon!”

He managed a smile as she stopped next to them. “Wow,” he said. “You look…”

What? Devastating? Fatal? Helpless? That’s how he felt. Odd adjectives for the lust that swamped him.

“Unspeakably beautiful,” Fuki supplied, giving an elaborate bow.

She giggled, her eyes bright. Too bright, maybe.

“I warned you about that stuff,” Enon told her.

“Just a little, I promise.”

“Don’t come grumbling to me in the morning.”

Her darkened lashes fluttered. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

He set his teeth. “Having fun?”

Risa, of course Risa, laughed at her side. “I could eat her up, this tiny _vai_!”

“Please don’t. Her mother would be most unhappy.”

Balka ignored this veiled reprimand. “We’re going to see the races! Are you coming?”

Fuki clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Lead on, fair Balka!”

Enon kept his eyes firmly on the ground as they followed the women through the market and around the south side of the city.

Fuki’s voice muttered in his ear. “Are you stupid?” Enon understood too well.

“No, I’m not.”

“Why didn’t you-?”

“No.”

Fuki gave him a long look, then shrugged. “I won’t pry. But, Enon, my friend! That woman!”

“I know,” Enon said heavily. “I know.”

Balka cheered as wildly as the Gerudo for the horse races and wrestling. She waved a ribbon of blue that matched her clothing, calling encouragement to her favorite.

“You should enter!” Fuki bellowed over the noise. “Impress your cousin, yes?”

The Sword stirred in its sheath, discontent, mocking.

“ _Nahn-ai_ ,” Enon drawled. “She wouldn’t be.”

The sun set and the market started to settle down. The men went back to their camp. The inn was nice enough, bunks set across a long room. He settled in one and tried to relax.

The others were all snoring when he slipped out. His boots made too much noise, so he left them behind. The sand was rough on his feet.

The moon had set and the stars were endless above him. He moved between shadows, now wishing he had the traditional _voe_ clothing. Fewer layers, more flexibility.

The wall was not as rough as the palace’s, but still scalable. Link had shown him the best routes in and out of the palace years ago. Something he guessed Zelda did not realize was being passed on.

Enon dropped cat-like into a dark corner. He moved in a crouch, avoiding torches and open doorways. The guards made sedate rounds, easily mapped. He had practiced this in several cities of Hyrule, Link flitting through the night, he following more carefully. Yet another pastime the Queen would be sure to condemn.

Why though? Why had Link taught him this? When would he ever need to do this? Aside from now, which he was certain even Link would be furious about.

And why was he doing this? If he was caught…there would be no explaining to her or the Gerudo Chieftess. A test? Of what? His stealth? Or self-control?

Risa’s shop was dark, the windows above not lit. He moved the carved wooden screen carefully, wincing as the hinges grabbed, but made no noise.

The floor was spread with a rug, deliciously soft after the coarse stone and sand.

Balka lay on a sleeping mat, her veil pulled aside and her lip paint smeared. Her ribs moved softly, her quiet breaths telling of her deep slumber.

He felt the stir of air and turned.

“She is lovely, isn’t she,” Risa murmured. “Delicate, almost.”

 “No, she’s not.” Delicate girls did not prod skeletons or shove snowballs down collars. Delicate girls did not shave their heads and go racing off into the unknown with a boy they despised.

Risa folded her arms over her chest. “I assume you have not come here for me.”

Enon blushed, glad the night hid it. “She has my heart. Always.”

“She is scared of it. Of you.”

Enon sighed. “I know. I…I hurt her.”

“Yes, she told me.”

Enon found the glint of Risa’s eyes in the darkness.

“ _Zulatu,”_ she chuckled. “You should know, well enough, _perqui sulno._ She told me many things about your Hyrule, her life. You.”

Enon shifted uncomfortably. Risa went on in the same calm voice. “But it is not just you, brave warrior. She is afraid of herself.”

It was something he could never understand. How brave she could be, yet so unsure. One moment laughing triumphant as he hollered for her to get off, the next apologizing tearfully as he scraped mud from his face. Jumping from stone to stone across a river in his wake, then meekly obeying her mother’s stern command to come sit demurely on the bank.

“She does not see herself, cannot envision her future.”

He wanted to shout it at her. _You can do anything you want! You can **be** anything you want. Just let me be there with you!_

“But she is still young. You both are.”

That admonition again. And he was. He _was_ young. And he understood a little of her uncertainty. It frustrated him because it was his own. What did his future hold? What was his place?

He didn’t care. He just wanted it to be with her.

“Why did you come here, Enon? A soldier? A warrior? What is it you seek?”

He turned away from the sleeping girl. “I am looking for someone, a sorceress. Far to the north.”

“I have no knowledge of this.”

“I would like to meet with your Chieftess.”

Risa made a disparaging noise. “She may allow _voe_ to prance about the walls, but she has little patience with them.”

“I am Enon of Ordon, Prince of the House Dhatin, Soldier of the Watch. I seek this sorceress to protect my people. Surely your Queen would understand.”

Risa laughed her low, rich laugh. “Enon, Enon! Are you sure I cannot teach you the ways of the _vai_?”

 Not her, as beautiful as she was. “I’m sure.”

“A pity, for I am certain you would father the _voe’savin_ , our king.”

Had he ever blushed so much in his life? They needed to get out of here. The heat, the smells, the clothes; everything made him anxious, restless. No wonder the men were willing to camp outside the walls, waiting for some _vai_ to notice them.

“I leave that to another more worthy, Risa.”

Risa sighed petulantly. “Then, if that is not in the stars, I will dress you.”

“Dress me?”

“You may be a Prince by blood, Enon, but you look like a beggar. Come, child.”


	6. The Blessing of the Chieftess

Balka would not complain, no matter she could feel her heartbeat in her temples. Risa brought her a drink, cool water flavored with something. It helped.

“Now, we must make haste. Your Enon is meeting with the Chieftess today.”

Balka felt she had missed more than the morning. “What’s happened?”

Risa chuckled. “He is learning to be a prince.”

Balka nibbled at the fruit and sweetened bread set before her. “He seems to have received a thorough education these past few days.”

Risa admired her handiwork, a white veil embroidered with seed pearls. “He is most impressive, yet still with much to learn.” She gave Balka a pointed look. “You will teach him, yes?”

Balka gulped her tonic. “What do I know that he doesn’t?” she asked with an attempt at calm.

Risa laughed. “Tiny _vai_ , that man will happily spend his life as your pupil. Now, let us go!”

The Chieftess of the Gerudo was an older woman, with white streaking her red hair and wrinkles at the corner of her fine eyes. She lounged on a couch set in the middle of the tent, surveying the space with weary boredom.

“Where is he?” she asked sleepily. Balka did not believe her indolence for a moment. Her muscles were too firm, her eyes too sharp. “And who is this?”

Risa bowed low. “The Lady Balka, of Hyrule. She travels with the Ordon Prince.”

Balka curtsied, though she wore again the silk trousers. She had a longer top on and no veil. Not much, but she felt more sure. Maybe she was just getting used to it.

The guards straightened, spears gripped and ready. Enon ducked under the tent edge. Balka twined her fingers together, surprised and a little perplexed.

He saw her and nodded respectfully. Then he turned his attention to the Chieftess.

“I am Enon, of Ordon,” he announced.

The Chieftess rose from her lounge. “I have heard tell of you, _voe’sava._ I am Psatep.”

“An honor, lady.”

The woman smiled a little. “Come closer.”

He did, his confidence only part of Balka’s confusion. He was dressed as a Gerudo Prince, as she had only seen in history books. Maybe it was the _zulatu_ still altering her reality, how he seemed both intimidating but more approachable. Less formal, certainly. Her mother would faint seeing so much of a man’s body. But they were all barely clothed, so what did it matter. At least she wasn’t sweating off her face paint.

Enon settled cross-legged on a cushion. “Thank you for seeing me today.”

“I am told you seek a sorceress? Why?”

“My Prince, Consort of Hyrule, has a son. This boy is gifted with prophecy.”

Psatep raised her eyebrows. “Has he been tested?”

“By whom, Chieftess?”

“Has the Goddess decreed it?”

“That I do not know, lady. But I bear witness to it.”

Maybe it was his voice. He sounded so sure, so certain. But she had always admired his confidence. What was different today?

“Of what did he speak?”

“A sorceress, seeking the Hero.”

Psatep’s eyes narrowed. “For ill I, take it.”

“I fear so, but I do not know to what end.”

“Then why do you go to her?”

Enon shook his head, his jeweled diadem gleaming. “I am not the Hero.”

Psatep flicked her fingers at him. “You carry the Master Sword.”

Balka gasped, horrified as she realized. “ _Enon_!”

He calmly drew the weapon. How could she have missed it? She had stared at it for weeks, seen him use it battle. It lay deep and latent across his knees. It raised the hairs on her neck, just as it had at home the few times she had seen it.

“I took it. Stole it, really.”

Psatep’s ennui dropped. She asked seriously, “Then how do you stand here before me?”

Enon touched the blade of the Master Sword, almost stroking it. “I don’t know. I can only take it as a sign I am doing right.”

“Its Master?”

“Link of the Gotkasi, Prince of Ordon and Consort to Queen of Hyrule. I took it the night their daughter was born.”

“You dishonor the Hero, taking his duty.”

“Link is not the Hero,” Enon countered. “Zelda, his wife, is. The Queen.”

Chieftess Psatep’s chuckle grew until she was shouting with laughter. She beckoned Balka closer.

“My child, why have you not wed this _voe’sava?_ ”

Balka spluttered. Psatep went on unheeding. “You must! He is in desperate need of the restraining hand!”

Enon grinned. “I fear Lady Balka is as reckless as I. My family does not sanction the union.”

Balka met his eyes, startled. He gave her a rueful look, his smile more a grimace.

Her stomach clenched with a mortification deeper than her first public steps in _vai_ costume. His family did not want her? He had told them about her and they had refused? Prohibited?

“So, you have run away together to seek out this threat? Perhaps romantic by some standards…”

Enon laughed. “I did my best to send her home. Short of tying her up and leaving her at the nearest crossroads. I admit I could not bear to do it.”

Psatep gave Balka a nod of respect. “Perhaps he is better trained than I thought. Well done.” She laughed softly. “Your skin is so beautiful, but it betrays you. No wonder you wear so many clothes.”

Maybe a norrix would appear and suck her down under the sand, right then. She chanced a peek, but Enon seemed to be paying her and her flush no more attention than the other women in the tent.

“What do you ask of me, _voe’sava_?”

“Supplies and passage across the desert.”

Psatep examined the bangles on her wrist. “A dangerous journey.”

“I know no more than a direction, lady Psatep.  But I am willing to face the danger. For my prince, anything.”

Psatep turned to her. “And you? Would you risk anything for your sovereign? Or do you wish to stay? It would be an honor to host you.”

Balka could not look at him. “I fear I am not as selfless as Prince Enon. I pledged myself to see the world. As lovely and gracious as you all have been, I would not end my travels here.”

Psatep clapped her hands. “Then we are decided. You will be outfitted for this journey. I can guide you to the Pavo Oasis and beyond, but our maps end in the mountains there.”

Enon stood and bowed, the Master Sword in his hand. “Thank you. I will make preparations at once.” He nodded to her and Risa and went out.

Psatep detained Balka with a gentle hand. “If you go with him, you may as well marry him. This journey? You are making a commitment equal to a union.”

Balka shook her head. And she would have never thought his family would look down on her! That they might dislike her!

“Tell me true, Balka. What would you do for your prince?”

The tender understanding in Psatep’s eyes made her tears swell up.

“Anything, Lady! Just- just _anything_!”

Risa stooped to hold her shoulders as she sobbed noisily. It didn’t make any sense. How could she love someone so much it hurt and yet fear him? How could she ever tell him what he meant to her? What if he didn’t feel the same? What if he lost interest? She had refused him more than once, pushed him away. What if he obeyed his family’s refusal, the dutiful son and prince?

 Balka wiped her face, forgetting the color around her eyes until it smeared on her hands.

“For such a man, I am not surprised.” Psatep tapped her cheek, a smile curving her mouth. “I am too old to bear the _voe’savin.”_ she mused.

Risa chuckled. “I offered, my Queen. He refused.” Her fingers cupped Balka’s chin, wiping a tear away. “And you can see why.”

Psatep laughed. “Come, little one. We will rest and prepare.”

 

Balka stood by her horse, waiting as Enon made some final preparations. The hills rose rocky before them, the sand washed up to their feet as the sea did to shore.

Enon was talking to the caravan leader, discussing the route as he marked his map. They shook hands and Enon folded up the heavy paper. There was not much left of it before they would walk off the edge.

To walk off a map…the idea was delicious. Exciting. Terrifying. If she went off a map, how would she find her way home?

“Ready?”

Balka mounted and took a last look at the desert behind. She was glad to leave the heat and wind. The residents of the oasis waved as they rode up into the hills.

Enon took the lead. The air was cooler and still, the sound of the horses muffled by the sandy track. Blown in by wind? Or washed down by rain?

She wanted to talk to him. But she felt newly hesitant. The caravan, making a biannual trek to this remote village, had been noisy and boisterous. The sudden quiet pressed down on her.

She cleared her throat. “What do you think they’re doing now? At home.”

He rode with a knee over his saddle horn, leaning back against his packs. No Hylian horse master would have tolerated such slovenly riding. But then, he rode much more skillfully than any Hylian she had ever met.

“It’s what, nearly _Minre_?”

“I think so.” She had lost track of the date even before the desert.

“Well, in Ordon, the wheat will be about ripe. We’d be mending the equipment, getting the scythes sharpened. The yearlings would be fattening for slaughter. Mother would have us out watching for late _azual_ blossoms and marking the bulbs.”

“And in Castle Town?”

He made a noise, half grunt, half snort.  “Meetings, arms practice, meetings. What else?”

Before she could respond to this, he went on. “The Watch will be readying for the autumn rotation. Davin assigns the units, now. The bridge will be pitched and the ropes checked. The Fullin Sluice would be closed for winter. Caches checked. _Vaerdi_ aeries cleared.”

She sat silent. Then, “I’m sorry you hate it there.”

He sent her a quick look. “I don’t _hate_ it. It’s just…”

They rode in silence for a time. “Do you think they’re mad?”

“Link and Zelda?” Enon asked. It was odd hearing their given names. No one in her family ever dared presume, even Misly. “Furious. If he doesn’t lock me in a dungeon, he’ll stripe me so I can’t lie down for a week.”

Enon did not sound as if he was joking. It was a stupid question, but she had to ask.

“Would he really? Flog you, that is?”

He touched the hilt of the Master Sword. “For treason and blasphemy? Absolutely.”

She scowled. “I don’t understand.”

He laughed softly, riding next to her as the trail meandered up into the hills. “Zelda might overrule him. She did, sometimes, just like my mother will forgive me.” His smile was tender. “They were always easy on me. Ordon blames them for my lack discipline.”

She wanted to laugh, too, but it was too serious for that. Enon was the most disciplined person she knew. Yes, he was impulsive, adventurous, energetic. But undisciplined? She knew the contradiction was absurd, that he was both reckless _and_ controlled.

 Maybe that was part of why his actions had scared her, back in that dim salon, why she felt so betrayed. That he would behave so meant he truly thought it his right, that he was justified in his actions.

Every rule he broke, every risk he took, was calculated. He considered his options, made a decision, and willingly faced the punishment.

She remembered when they would emerge from their explorations to find their respective nannies waiting. Charged with his whereabouts, he would coolly confess. When they scolded him, he acknowledged he was out-of-bounds, declared the restriction asinine, and accepted their punishment.

Every fight with Nelsin and other boys foolish enough to cross him. Every clandestine midnight excursion. Every vase broken during play. Every time, he would walk calmly up to the Queen or Consort and confess.

It was a bravery and self-confidence she both admired and feared. She chanced a peek at him. He was frowning a little, eyes forward.

The first time they had met, he had been fresh from a caning. It was the Queen and Consort’s wedding feast. The children had been shepherded out of the increasingly raucous dining hall. Despite all of Hyrule’s nobility filling the Grand Hall, it had been a decidedly Ordonian wedding.

She had stood awkwardly outside her family’s new lodgings, wondering what she should do for the rest of the evening, when Enon walked by.

“ _Kai’o_ , _oblen regesa,”_ he’d said, nodding to her.

“H-hello?” She felt like a bucolic fool even in memory. Enon had blinked and shifted to his clipped Hylian.

“Shown out, _ta_?”

“Sorry?”

“The feast. We are done?”

“Yes.”

“ _Shen-_ _nahn de_ , who? _Ta_ , who are you?”

“I’m Balka.”

“M’baka?”

“No. Just Balka.”

“Bawl-kah,” he drawled. “Balka. Balka?”

“Yes.”

He seemed to search for words. “Worker? _Nahn,_ serve? Lady? Yes? No?”

She understood. “My father is Lord Terpandra.”

An unexpected scowl descended on his forehead. “Nelsin?”

“My brother.”

He’d grunted. “ _Sen itzu ta de plunt.”_

 _“_ Who are you?”

“Enon. Of Dhatin.” He’d given her a short bow and winced, rotating his shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Your arm,” she’d added at his confused look. “Are you hurt?”

“Oh, _nahn sejr fi_. Link. He beat me.”

Her shock must have been apparent, because he laughed and said, “Not as bad as I do.”

“Do what?”

“You…your? Your brother. Nelsin.”

She had caught a glimpse of her brother’s swollen face earlier that day. Enon’s knuckles had been split and bruised.  She wanted to feel righteous indignation. But instead she just sighed.

“He is such an ass.”

Enon cocked his head at her. “‘Ass?’”

She’d blushed and he’d laughed, guessing the word was vulgar. He’d used it the next week, mischief in his eyes as he drawled it out.

The Queen had swiveled in her chair. “ _What_ did you say?”

His attempt at innocence did not fool the woman. “ _Zer_ _se susion, regerin?”_

She had cuffed him sharply. He rubbed the spot with a scowl. Balka had not been able to help her giggle when he shot her a grin.

Her family had been appalled when she mentioned she had played with the Ordonian boy that afternoon. Misly, eyes only for her new husband, had taken long enough to say, “He _is_ a little wild, isn’t he?”

The tall, quiet Ordonian had glanced up at her. “Who, Enon?”

“Yes, dear.”

The man had smirked. “Enon is a true _dah tin_.”

Balka had asked Misly when she peeked in to say goodnight.

“Dhatin, love? It’s one of their families. Or maybe a clan. Lord Ordon was a Dhatin. Enon is his nephew. And Sorrint is related somehow. But the prince is a Gotkasi, though Ordon chose him as heir…?” Misly had given her laconic shrug. “Sorrint tried to explain it to me, but it’s really complicated, clan affiliations, ranks in their army, marriages. And each clan has their own dialect and their own social strata.”

Balka had accepted a kiss on the cheek, thinking quickly. “Could he teach me? Sorrint, I mean? His language?”

Misly’s tight hug made more sense once Balka realized how horrified their parents were in their eldest’s choice of husband. “You and I will learn together, my dear. A disadvantage for a wife, not understanding the things her husband mutters under his breath!”

Balka had noticed Sorrint did so a lot, particularly after any length of time with her parents. She had already grown fond of the man. He was kind and patient and answered her probing questions, about being a soldier, traveling, his home.

Misly had wondered into scholarly musings. “I think it may be related to _dhat’re_. Chenae was Ordonian. He wrote _Jun ne Dhat’re Bastura._ _Warrior of the Wild_ ,” she translated.

And Enon was a warrior. It was apparent in everything he did, the way he moved, his quick thinking in the desert. She came back from her memories as he asked, “What about your parents?”

What would they say if they saw her now? She hoped they would be relieved at her safety. Angry, yes, but understanding. Her father, for all his awkwardness with his daughters, did love them.

Balka sighed. “I don’t know. I…I know I disappoint them.”

“What are you talking about?” Enon demanded.

She shrugged. “I can’t help but feel I let them down. Mama had such hopes for me, for my future.”

Enon’s scowl made her glad her mother was inaccessible at the moment. “What hopes?”

“Marrying well, having children.”

“Misly did that,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but not…not like they wanted. Han is, well, Han.” She fiddled with her reins. “Then there was me, wild Balka.”

He reached over and gripped her hand. “You decide your future. No one else matters.”

She returned the pressure. He patted her hand and straightened. “Let’s stop up here and rest the horses.”

 

Enon wasn’t sure what had changed, but he rejoiced in it. She felt easier, happier. She talked and laughed like she used to, before they - _he-_ had damaged their friendship.

He taught her to use the compass and stars to track their path across the crude map. She showed him unfamiliar animal tracks and traced them to their burrows. She was surprisingly stealthy, catching small animals unawares. She didn’t seem to mind the drizzling rain or hiking for miles on rocky paths.

Had he not believed her when she told him about her adventures? Had he assumed she would be bad at this sort of trek, just because she was smaller and weaker than he, a _girl?_ The hypocrisy made his conscious squirm. For all his time in the wilderness, he had never been without a unit of men, support, a safety net. She had ventured out alone.

He worked up the courage to tell her. “I’m glad you’re here with me, Balka.”

She looked up from the fire, her brown eyes as dark and endless as the night sky above. She smiled. “Me, too.”

A tiny shiver of hope made him breathless. He cleared a suddenly dry throat. “Getting cold at night. Must be the elevation.”

She poked at the embers and yellow sparks drifted up to join the stars. “It reminds me of Brynn.”

The trees were still short, the climate dry, but they were moving into thicker forest everyday. Little undergrowth, which spoke to the snow he could smell in the mornings.

He’d never been to her home, further north than Ordon, tucked against the Hebrans.

“Your family has orchards, _ta_?”

Balka nodded, still fussing with the coals. “The frost apples should be ready to pick.”

“Do you get much snow?”

She shook her head. “Just ice and cold. Good for the apples.”

Enon vaguely recalled Sorrint giving him a lecture on agriculture. He tried to ask her more, but she grew more and more monosyllabic, so he let it go.

 

They came to a ridge overlooking a valley. As they planned their descent, she suddenly gripped his arm.

“Look! Smoke!”

A narrow cloud of it rose from the far end of the valley.

“Cookfire?”

She chewed her lip. “How will we know when we’ve found her? This sorceress?”

“I doubt she’ll be camped in a thicket.”

It was a cookfire. Or had been. The coals were cool to the touch when they arrived at the place that evening. Enon went over the clearing carefully. Ten, maybe fifteen people.

He poked apart a refuse pile with a stick. Animal bones, food scraps.

“Enon, look at this.” It was the size of her palm, teardrop shaped with a black sheen. “Have you ever seen something like this?”

He took it, feeling the rough surface on the concave side. “Never this big,” he said slowly. “It looks like a scale.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He handed it back. “Keep an eye out for more. Maybe some animal up here?”

Her face scrunched up with displeasure. “A giant lizard?”

“Or a snake.” She shuddered. He laughed at her. “You aren’t scared of snakes! You caught one, yesterday!”

“That was a newt,” she said primly. “Not a snake.”

“Newts are grosser than snakes.”

“Newts aren’t poisonous.”

“Neither are most snakes!”

“I don’t have to justify my phobias to you, Enon of Ordon!”

He gripped the firewood he carried to stop himself from kissing her petulant mouth. “Come on, you goose. Help me get the fire started.”

She stuck her tongue out and went to scrounge for dry sticks.

By the time he had their meal ready, she had collected a small pile of the scales. She laid them out by size, some as small as his thumbnail, the largest spanning his hand.

He started when she dropped her bedroll next to his, rather than at his feet. He looked up to her face, barely illuminated by the crackling embers.

“I really am scared of snakes,” she said in a trembling voice.

He folded his hands behind his head. “Especially giant ones.”

 “If there are, I will never forgive you!”

“I told you not to come,” he pointed out. She unrolled her blankets with a scowl turning her lips down. He thought she had fallen asleep before she spoke again.

“Thank you.”

“ _Zer te de_?”

“For not making me go home.” There was a rustle as she turned over, facing away from him.

 

He woke suddenly. The night air was cool and still. Damp, early morning before sunrise. He stayed still, keeping his breaths even.

Balka slept curled next to him. Her forehead touched his shoulder, her hand gripping his blankets.

What had he heard? The night was quiet, the wind, a distant call of a coyote. Too cold for insects, no birds for a few hours.

Yet…

On his other side lay the Sword. He fell asleep each night gripping the hilt, trying to understand why it had let him take it from its Master. The leather was warm in his hand with more than his own body heat.

 _Be wary,_ it told him. _Be wary, Enon of Ordon._

He lay awake in the darkness, listening to her breathe and the Sword murmur warnings in his heart.


	7. Into Tereine

He must have slept again, because the racket of the birds roused him. Even the weight of Balka’s head on his arm could not improve his mood. He carefully freed himself, gently replacing his limb with her rolled up cloak.

Working the stiffness out of the half numb appendage, he walked softly around their camp.

The dewy grasses glinted in the dawn. He stooped and examined where some had been bent back. It could have been a small animal bedding down, but for the gouges left. Three pressed into the earth on each print, wide at the base and narrowing to a keen point.

He shook Balka’s shoulder. “We need to get moving.”

She rubbed her head, her hair long enough to crease at odd angles during her sleep. “Why?”

He hesitated, not wanting to tell her. “I just have a feeling.”

“A feeling?” she grumbled as she pulled on her boots.

“A bad one. Let’s go.”

She did not argue, but quickly gathered her things and followed him away from the clearing.

It followed him all day, keeping him glancing back. She challenged him about it.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she demanded.

He couldn’t explain it. If it was a _crytch_ , it would have attacked them while they slept. It wasn’t a Rito. They had talons, but not scales. And they, too, would have attacked the Hylians.

“I just…something just feels off.”

_Be wary._

He adjusted his baldric. The sheets he had wrapped the sheath in were worn and frayed. He should just discard them, but that felt like a declaration. That he was worthy to carry the Sword.

He picked their camp more carefully that night, hidden under a rockfall. They cooked quickly and banked the coals.

She made her bed next to his again. She caught his eyes and looked away quickly. “I’ve been cold.”

He showed her how they slept in the Pellisans, manning the Watch in the deep winter. A rough blanket over the dirt, their bedrolls next. Each wrapped in their own blankets and the thickest laid over top.

“Shares body heat, three or four of us together.”

She settled in next to him, smelling of smoke and pine and wool. “You do this with the other men of your unit?”

Enon chuckled. “If someone is so homophobic they’re willing to freeze to death, maybe it’s the Goddess’ will.”

She laughed a little, too. “How deep does the snow get in Ordon?”

“In the valley? A few feet. Some winters it reaches to the eaves and we have to tunnel to the barns.”

She shivered. “Sounds awful.”

“It’s not so bad; at least there is no wind, then. Mother would let us play instead of study. She and Suenta, our housewoman, always made us thrummed mittens and lined our boots with shearing. And she would save a pot of honey to make _zukrea_ at midwinter.”

He found he was hungry to talk about his home. Their daily tasks, his siblings, the children he played with. His mother and the little he could remember of his father.

“She sounds wonderful.”

“She is,” he said softly. “I love her more than anyone. Except maybe Zelda.” _And you, my halting, courageous Balka._

“She scares me.”

“ _Sheni_ , the Queen?”

Her head moved against his chest. “They all do. The prince. Sheik.”

He lifted onto an elbow to look down at her. “Why?”

She shrugged. “They just…they are so _much_. More. Legends.”

“They are still people. _Good_ people.”

“I know. I can’t explain it.” She snuggled deeper into her blankets. “Good night.”

He watched her a moment, then reached for the Sword. He slid it between them and held the hilt tightly. Maybe it would stop him from pulling her close, pressing her body against his in a way he would never a fellow soldier, no matter how icy the wind.

 

Balka was uneasy for several reasons.

One, sleeping tucked against Enon’s body was the most guiltily pleasurable sensation.  Warm, protected, safe. The way his breaths ruffled her hair. The weight of his arm over her. Waking to find he had tucked her under his blankets before he made his rounds of their camp.

He was being a true gentleman about the whole thing, never touching her in any sensual way. Even though an increasingly eager part of her wanted him to.

Two, he was worried. His eyes were anxious, his brows flat and low. He watched the trees, his bow strung and ready.

When she asked about it, he would only say, “I don’t know. Something is not right.”

There was a dusting of snow on the ground, now. He took an evening and lined their boots with dark gray wool, still fluffy from combing and drawing.

“Bought it at the Gerudo Market,” he explained. “True Ordonian shearing.  Ygoras; Gotkasi breeds them.”

Her stockinged toes reveled in the warmth. “Thank you.”

He moved faster, too, hustling her in the mornings and riding until after dark. Which was much sooner now winter was approaching.

He drew up suddenly, his head turned. The path lay open before them, the woods quiet.

“What-?”

He hushed her and notched an arrow. The metal arrowhead glinted as cold as the frost on the needles of the trees. The horses lifted their heads, ears forward.

“Stay here,” he murmured. She held the reins tight in her mittens as he moved up the path. She lost sight of him behind a boulder.

The minutes crept until she saw a flash of color. His cloak against the trees. He had climbed up the hill to the left and crouched, arrow angling down into a depression.

He sighted and loosed. A howling shriek cut the air. Enon loosed again and it choked into silence.

She fought to keep the horses calm. He ran back and took the reins from her. She followed him to the small ravine.

Two monsters lay dead, each with an arrow through their thick, reptilian skulls. The horses snorted at the smell, musky and foul. Her stomach twisted as he jerked his arrows free and wiped them absently. He grimaced as one flexed in his hands. He snapped off the arrowhead and tossed the shaft back to the ground.

The creatures had the same scales as the ones she had found, how many days ago? He picked up a fresh one and examined it.

“Same, _ta?”_

She nodded, unable to speak.

He walked around them, eyes busy on the ground. “Camped here for a few days. Why?” He nudged a pile of cloth. “Blankets? Supplies?”

“Travelers they attacked?”

His scowl was uncertain. “No tracks. No remains.” He stood silent for a long time. Then he kicked one of them over. She gripped her cloak close as its head rolled limply, mouth gaping open.

He touched a mark on its chest, red paint, maybe. He straightened. “Come on.”

He was silent for the rest of the afternoon. He found them a camp much earlier than usual.

“Did Sorrint teach you to fight?” he asked.

“A little.”

He gave her a thick stick about the length of a hunting knife. “Show me.”

He was much stronger and larger than her, but her brother-in-law had anticipated such a disparity. Enon grunted as she jabbed him with stiff, efficient blows and broke free.

He leaned over and wheezed, a hand to his stomach. “Good,” he gasped. “This time, keep your elbow firm, so I can’t break your grip.”

He caught her wrist as her pretend knife jabbed at his throat. She winced, hand aching from the strength of his grip. A few more grapples and he ended their session. “Remember, surprise is your advantage. Attack, break free, and run.”

She took a real hunting knife from him. He didn’t release it at once.

“When you do stab someone,” he said slowly, “their blood will make your hands slippery. _Crytch_ blood burns. You need to wash it off your skin as soon as you can. It will etch your blade.”

She felt the weight of the thick knife. How to ask? “You’ve killed a man before? A human?”

Enon looked at his dirty palms. “Yes.”

But when? He had been only a boy during the war. His eyes flashed as he looked at her and away. “I was ten. He, both of them, were slavers.” He took a breath as if to speak, but just let it out.

She touched his arm. “It is no crime to kill in self-defense, in a time of war.”

“It wasn’t. It was vengeance.” Before she could find words, he shook himself, shook off whatever memories he was reliving. “It was justified. Just traumatic, at that age. Here.” He handed her the flint box. “I’m going to see if there is any game back by that river. I’ll be a while.”

“Be careful.”

He gave her a slightly grim smile and left with his bow. Late that night, she lay awake, watching the shadowed planes of his face. She laid her hand over his where it rested on the Sword between them. His skin was rough from work and weather.

He stirred, roused by her touch. His fingers twined with hers and he sighed, a soft thing in the darkness.

“ _Zait ta’luan_ ,” he murmured.

She waited until he was breathing deeply once more.

“I love you, too.”

 

She looked anxiously up to him. All she could see where the rough soles of his boots.

“It’s a town,” he called down to her. “Down in the valley. Walled with timber. Maybe three hundred people?”

He climbed down the tree and jumped to the ground. “Should we?”

Balka had no idea. “How else are we supposed to find her?”

Enon grimaced. “I was hoping…” At her questioning look, he scowled. “I was hoping the Sword would guide me.”

She eyed the sapphire gleaming above his shoulder. “Has it?”

“No.” There was just enough hesitation in his tone to give lie to his negation. But she didn’t press. There was a strange fear in his face, an uncertainty.

The trail became wider, smoother. A road. Fields cleared from the forest lay empty, stubble all that was left of the harvest.

The first person to see them dropped their hayfork and ran hollering into a barn. They did not stay to discover who they were fetching.

The next stared at them, drawing a wagon up shortly. Others, going about daily work. They were human, slightly darker skin, more browns than the blonds common in Hyrule. Enon stopped outside the gates and dismounted.

A man strode out, wiping dirty hands on a thick work apron.

Enon spoke clearly and calmly. “I am called Enon.”

The man looked over him with hard eyes, taking in the Sword, still concealed in its wrappings, the fine horses, a little travel worn.

Balka stiffened her spine as he looked to her. She glared back, hand gripping her knife under her cloak.

The man’s voice was hoarse, but he spoke in accented Hylian. “From where?”

“Hyrule.”

He frowned. “It is unknown.”

“Far from here, across a desert,” Enon explained. “What is this place?”

Others had joined him, laborers, women and children.

“Mave,” the first man said after considering. “What is it you do?”

“We are travelers,” Enon said soothingly. “And have not slept in a bed for many nights.”

The man’s faced relaxed a little. “A bed I can supply. Provisions, no.”

Enon held out his hands. “I am a skilled hunter. Can I help fill your pantry?”

The townspeople relaxed as well. Some running to fetch others, some murmuring to each other.

“I welcome your help and your visit. And your…?”

“Wife,” Enon said firmly. “Balka is my wife.”

Something strong and not unwelcome closed around her chest.

“Please, follow.”

They stabled their horses. Enon lifted her saddle free and set it on his shoulder. He caught her arm as she readied her curry comb.

“To protect you,” he said quietly, eyes searching her face. “Nothing more.”

“I understand. And thank you.”

They ate in a small room, crammed around a table with the man and his family.

“Jenin,” he introduced himself. “My own wife, Sul. Our children.” Balka did not follow their names. They stared at her with wide, dark eyes.

Enon dug in his pack and found a small paper bag. He beckoned the children. The oldest approached cautiously. Enon picked out a piece of candied sunfruit and held it out to the girl.

She glanced to parents for permission before taking the small treat in trembling fingers. Her eyes widened as she tasted it.

“It is good!” she said. The others crowded around, begging for a piece. Enon laughed as he parceled out the treat.

After the children went to bed, Jenin offered Enon a glass filled with amber liquid.

“No, thank you,” Enon said firmly. “Makes me sick.”

Their bed was a tick mattress rolled out by the stove. Jenin and his wife herded the children upstairs. Balka helped Enon make up the bed and stretched out on the lumpy thing with a sigh of ecstasy.

He chuckled. “Amazing what you can be happy with, isn’t it?”

Under the radiant heat of the stove, she felt warm for the first time in a month. He sat on the edge of the mat and removed his boots.

She jabbed him in the back with her foot. “You’re a filthy liar, Enon.”

He twisted to peer at her. “ _Zer ne_ _qui?”_

“You said we were out of dried fruit!”

He chuckled. “By Ordona’s grace, I thought we were. It had slipped to the bottom.” He set his boots next to hers by the stove. It was a surprisingly homey sight that made her nostalgic for something, but she wasn’t sure what.

The Sword was a hard lump between them. The foot of space seemed a mile. She missed his warmth, even with the stove’s crackling heat.

“Goodnight, Enon.”

He yawned. “ _Metsa ah_ , Balka.”

 

Enon pulled his arrow free of the doe. The local, a hunter named Culin, drew his boning knife.

“A good hit,” he praised. “Clean.”

Enon helped him debone the carcass and pack up the meat. It was a cold hike back to the village, the gate coming into view after the sun had risen.

They unloaded their packs in the common house, a squat building with stone furnaces at each end. Women took the meat and started divvying it up.

Balka called greeting, her arms full of washing. He watched her help the older children as they shook out the wet clothes and hung them along the back wall to dry in the warmth of the fires.

“A pretty girl, your wife.”

Enon agreed. She was pretty, with a borrowed skirt tied up at the waist and her hands pink from soap and hot water.

“Come, food is prepared.”

It had snowed the past two nights and froze into a hard, crunchy layer, as if the world had been glazed by an extravagant pastry chef.

Enon was cleaning the horses’ hooves when hammering peel broke the afternoon quiet. He wiped his hoof knife and looked to the watch tower.

Jenin came out of his house at a run, calling for his children. Others did the same, the women grabbing their littles and pulling them to safety.

Enon stopped Jenin. “What is it?”

“ _Uskers!”_

Balka came to him at a run. “ _Crytch_ ,” she said urgently. “Like the others. Twenty, maybe thirty.”

Enon made to draw the Sword. “Jenin, I’ll hold them off, you-”

“No!” Jenin gripped his arm, forcing the blade into the sheath. “No, you must not dare!”

“But-?”

“Take it off,” Jenin urged. “It is forbidden!”

The streets emptied, doors closing with heavy thuds. Jenin and other men bunched by the common house. Enon unbuckled the Sword and held it out if sight.

He could not control his body as the _crytch_ came into view. His heart raced, his muscles eager to fight.

_Be wary, Enon._

They were the same as the ones in the wood, these _uskers_. Tall, scaled, with blunted faces and narrow eyes. Their lumbering walk would have comical if they weren’t so grotesque.

Balka’s hands closed over his arm. “Look!” she whispered. “Look how they’re marching!”

They were, in two files behind a leader, a brownish one with a broken front fang. Unbelieving, Enon watched as it held up a claw and they stopped, spears planted in the dirt. Jenin stepped forward.

“Greetings.”

The _crytch_ titled its head over to see him from one eye and then the other.

“Jenin,” it said in guttural voice.

“What is it you need here?” Jenin asked.

The _crytch_ hissed. “Dead _usker_ in the woods, Jenin. Explain!”

Jenin held out his hands. “We do not know of what you speak.”

“You kill them, hunt them! Explain!”

“My word, Yska. Our hunters do not range beyond our valley.”

This Yska snarled at the human. “Then explain this?”

Enon’s arrow was thrown to the ground, the Ordonian style fletching bright against the frozen mud. He still had the arrowhead in his pack, not found the time to replenish his quiver.

“It was not our people, Yska.”

“I think you lie,” Yska said. The others growled, tails lashing. “I think you kill us and lie!”

The men drew together. Enon looked quickly; none had weapons. _It is forbidden!_

“Maybe we kill you, two for two. Who will be chosen?”

Jenin was trembling, terrified of the threat. “Yska, please, not again. Our women-”

Enon pushed through the men. Balka’s hands clutched at him, but he brushed her off. He moved into the open space between the two races.

“I killed them.”

The silence was broken by Yska’s hiss of rage. “ _You_?”

Enon slung the Sword over his shoulder. “I did. I did not know they were your people.”

Maybe his boldness confused the creatures? They shifted uneasily, their leader blinking quickly. “Why? Why kill them?”

“In my land, your kind are beasts. They do not speak, only hunt and kill. I did what I thought was right. I was protecting my wife.”

Even faced with an eight-foot reptile eager to murder him, Enon savored those words in his mouth: _my wife_.

Yska shrieked, a horrible shrill noise. “You will end, man!”

Enon drew the Sword. Maybe they were _crytch_ , for they shied back as the Sword shone eager and bright.

“I will make reparations,” Enon said firmly. “I am _not_ giving myself up to vigilante justice. Where are your courts? Your law? I will face them.”

Yska watched the blade warily. “What is this?”

“Do you have any laws in this land? Who is in command? I will speak with them.”

The humans were muttering now, their whispers to flee, to hide mixing with the wordless snarls of the _uskers_.

“You want to see our Mistress?” Yska asked.

_She is the one._

“Yes. I would speak with your mistress.”

Yska was torn. It looked at him, at the others, at the shuttered houses with quick, jerking movements of its head.

“Give it to me,” it commanded, pointing at the Sword.

Enon held it firm, ready in prime. “You will die trying. No living soul will take this blade from me.”

It was the first lesson. _Never give up your weapon. Make them cut it from your rigid, lifeless fingers._

Yska leveled a spear. Enon looked past the point a hands-breadth from his face. “I will promise to do you no harm, if you grant me safe passage to your Mistress. On my word, taken by the Goddess.”

It could not know what that meant, nor know the brush on his thoughts as She accepted the oath. If he broke it, he would face Her punishment. It would be better his soul was destroyed utterly.

Yska spear did not waver. Enon stared boldly into its gleaming, slitted eye. “If you attempt to detain me, harm me or any of these people, I will destroy all of you.”

He could to. He saw it clearly. Yska would draw back to stab. Deflect in fourth, grab the spear, pull it off balance. Third from the left jumps, take on an upward cross. Release spear, throw knife, two dead, fourth on right-

He came back to the chill day as Yska spoke.

“Who is man? Where do you come from?”

“I am Enon of Ordon.”

Yska watched the gleam of the blade, wary and twitching. “Mistress will punish you.”

“Very well.” He turned back to the others. “I am sorry I brought this danger here.”

Jenin was pale. “You…are you mad in your mind, Enon?”

“No.” In fact, he felt good. Clear, focused, eager. Strong. The blade was light, effortless, as he sheathed it. Balka’s face was set.

“Balka-”

“If you even suggest it, I will help them murder you!”

He laughed and the townspeople backed away from him, bunching like frightened sheep.

“Then hurry and pack, my girl. I don’t think they will let me out of their sight.”

Yska was perplexed, head drawn back, yellow eyes wide. “Why do we bring the pale human?”

“My wife,” Enon explained. Goddess, those words felt good, sounded good, _tasted_ good. “She will not be left behind.”

It was an awkward twenty minutes. Finally, Balka led the horses forward. They shied from the smell of the creatures. Enon went to his with a stern, “Quiet.”

To his surprise, it did, shaking its head and standing still for him to mount. Balka clambered up.

“We are ready.”

Yska called to the others. They surrounded the horses.

“My thanks, Jenin!” Enon called as they marched through the town. “I will not forget your kindness!”

They townspeople watch in silence as they rode through the east gate with the _uskers_.


	8. Into the Other

They moved at a half trot, covering as much ground as a mounted man could. Enon watched them narrowly, trying to figure out what they were.

They had the same body type as the ones in the desert. But no spawn of the shadow could speak as these _uskers_ did. Nor did they organize, any temporary alliance quickly devolving into a fight over food.

These ones had ranks, painted on their chest in the same red. They followed Yska’s orders and reported back with intelligence.

“Why do we not eat them?” one of the soldiers complained.

Yska hit it and pressed its face to the ground. “Man will speak to the mistress,” he growled.

They passed another small town. Enon heard the alarm given and by the time they reached the gates, no one was in sight.

Yska marched them through without stopping.

They made a crude camp that night. Enon did hold Balka tight against him, his back to earthen bank. She shivered though it was passably warm under their blankets.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

He wasn’t, which was strange. Alert, wary, but not frightened. Even as his mind played through dozens of possible scenarios, plans of attack. He didn’t even feel tired, though the march had been long.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, the downy ends of her hair brushing his cheek. “Try to sleep.”

Her eyes were warm pools of the softest brown, like the silky coat of a rabbit kit. She ducked her head and huddled in the circle of his arms.

The next day was warmer. They descended quickly down a pass. The switch backs slowed the horses. Yska hissed and growled as he urged them along.

Enon could see their destination. In the lowlands, a castle stood, ringed by a river. A smoky haze drifted up from the cluster of buildings surrounding it.

“What is this place?” Enon asked.

“You be silent!” Yska hissed.

The forest had been cleared for more fields. The people here did not run from the _uskers_. They did avoid them, moving hastily out of the way when one passed.

Yska barked at the others. Some went off down a road, others turned back.

“Off horses!” Enon helped Balka to the ground. The two remained guards prodded him with the butts of their spears.

“Walk!”

He did, taking in the buildings, the people. Some wore all black, others dull colors. _Uskers_ roamed the dirt streets. It was larger than Ordon, but less refined. The buildings were rough timbers, graying with weather. The streets were not paved. His boots grew heavy with sticky mud. The people watched them pass with dull, uncurious faces.

The river had been channeled to encircle the castle. More _uskers_ stood at the gate and drawbridge. Some swam in the green waters, others perched on the walls.

Balka’s mittened hand slipped into his. He squeezed her fingers and switched her to his right so his sword hand would be free. He had always been jealous of Link’s ambidexterity.

Through a set of heavy doors, twice his height. Inside was a wide hall lit with torches. Women and men in gray robes watched them curiously. One stopped them before a second set of double doors.

“What is this?” the man demanded.

Yska groveled. “Man killed two _usker_. Wants to see Mistress.”

The man shooed them away. “You bother her with this? Kill it and be done.”

Yska spoke with the timidity of great risk. “Man is different, Jushi. Man has sword.”

This Jushi was not impressed. “You _dare-_ ”

Enon pushed forward. “I am Enon of Ordon. Your mistress wants to see me.”

Jushi scowled. “Who is this?”

“Man,” Yska tried to explain again. “Has sword.”

Jushi kicked Yska’s snout. The _usker_ jerked back, rearing up and hissing. The others rumbled, shifting as their leader licked blood from its jaw.

“Silence, cretin,” Jushi snarled. “Or I will cast you to the _khraka_ with him.”

Enon laid a hand on Yska’s scaly arm. It cocked an eye to peer at him.

“Do Yska no harm,” Enon said firmly.

Yska jerked away. “Man has sword.”

“What does this damn sword got to do with-?”

“Jushi.”

The man choked off, turning to bow.

“Lady,” he murmured. The _uskers_ cowered, writhing before this woman.

Enon examined her as she did him. She had dark hair and eyes, dressed in a flowing dress of white. She saw the hilt over his shoulder and her eyes widened.

“You, there,” she said, her voice low and musical.

Yska cringed but replied. “Mistress?”

“Where did you find this man?”

“Mave, mistress. He kill two _uskers_. Murder them.”

She dismissed this. “It matters not. You have done well. Be gone.”

Yska peered up at her. “He will punished? He kill-”

Jushi shouted over it. “Are you deaf, rodent? Be gone!”

The _uskers_ scurried away. Balka pressed against Enon’s side. He could feel her trembling.

The woman smiled and its cruelty stole all the beauty from her face.

“I have been looking for you.”

 

 Balka had to force her feet forward. Her body, her mind, every part of her resisted, revulsed by this woman. She looked at Enon with such hunger in her eyes. Balka held tight to his hand.

The room was large, richly furnished. The woman walked with a swaying stride to a chair, a throne, and sat, her long skirts draped over the stone.

“The girl?” the woman asked.

“Balka, of Hyrule.” Not his wife? This woman peered into his face. She laughed suddenly, like bells. “And how deeply you love her, brave hero! Then why do you risk her?”

“It is her choice.”

A choice she was regretting.

“I am surprised,” she murmured. “What happened to the other one? Did your people execute him for his crimes?”

Enon’s voice never changed, cool and even. “What is it you want with me?”

The sorceress finally broke her stare. She toyed with a pendant hanging from her neck. “You think I seek to destroy you.”

Enon tensed for the first time, his arm hard under her hands. “Many have tried to take the Sword and its power.”

“The Master Sword,” she said softly. “The Demise of Ganon. _Lutheinbane_. _Avrelin._ It has many names, of which you cannot know, little human.”

She leaned back. “I care little for your petty wars. The squabbling of those you call divine. Fah, sickening. A mighty hero? You are as nothing as the rest of your kind.”

Enon’s smile was hard and unfamiliar. “Easy words from a woman seeking me so earnestly.”

Balka shivered at the flash of anger in her eyes. Then she laughed, those bells again, but slightly flat.

“There is no denying your courage, hero!” Her mouth became petulant once more. “And you are correct. I do need you.”

Her pendant lifted from her chest and floated in the air between them. “I seek something, something only the Hero can find. Three stones, taken from this world long before your people even came to this continent. I want you to bring them to me.”

“Why do you want them?”

The gold of the pendant gleamed as it spun, three hollows like dark, staring eyes. “What else, boy? For the power they hold.”

Balka wanted to pull him away, beg him to fight his way out of here. But her voice was gone, her heart pressed down under the power the sorceress possessed.

“If I do this,” Enon said slowly. “You will leave Hyrule alone. Gerudo, Eldin, all countries of the subcontinent.”

She shrugged. “What interest do I have in your lands?”

“When I return with these stones, you will allow us to leave.”

“Yes.”

 _A lie!_ Balka tried to shout at him. _All lies! Don’t do this!_

“This girl will be safe.”

“Of course.”

“If any harm comes to her, I will destroy all of you.” Balka cringed as his words settled on her. He sounded like the Consort, like the Queen, implacable, deadly in his sternness.

“She will be waiting for you when you return,” the sorceress vowed, teeth showing.

“ _No,”_ Balka whispered. “Please, Enon, _no!”_

He kissed her. His hands, calloused and strong, cupped her face, stroked her cheeks.

“Please,” she pleaded, even as his lips moved on hers, the taste of him more intoxicating than _zulatu_. “Please, don’t.”

He smiled down at her, tender and sad. “I have to do this.” He pressed something to her chest. It was her knife, his knife. Another barbaric Ordonian custom. She gripped it with cold fingers.

 “I will come back for you.”

 “ _Please,_ Enon, don’t-!”

“I love you, _astana_. I cannot tell you how much.”

Then why was he leaving her?

The sorceress was not moved by their anguish. “Are you ready, hero?”

He wasn’t the Hero! Balka’s panic choked her as he straightened. Why was he doing this?

“Where?”

The air between them rippled, opened. A door into darkness opened. Enon strode forward and stepped through. The passage closed and he was gone.

 

Cantor stilled, his siblings racing by as they played in the first snow of the season. Link watched him, hating the distance in his face, knowing what it signified.

“What is it, Cantor?”

“Enon has gone,” he said.

His son made a peculiar motion, a shiver almost. He looked around at the courtyard. “It’s snowing there, too.”

“You’re it!” Arnon crowed, tapping Cantor shoulder as he skidded by. Cantor laughed and gave chase.

Link let out his breath, frightened as he hadn’t been in a long time. For his son, for Enon, for his family.

Their game ranged them close. Cantor slowed again, looking up to his father’s face. His child’s voice only deepened the warning.

“We must be ready, daddy. She will need us soon.”

Link spoke hoarsely. “Who, _oston_?”

“Balka.”

It made him sick to ask, to use whatever power resided in his son’s soul. “Why? How?”

Cantor’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t see. There is a Shadow.”

“Come on, Cantor! Help me!”

The boy scampered off to aide Lili.

 

The sorceress’ laugh raised chills on Balka’s neck. The doors opened and that man, Jushi, came in. He bowed low, arms wide.

“He has gone, great Queen?”

“He has.” Her mouth was curved in that awful smile.

“All will be made ready.”

“He must not suspect …” She broke off, seeing Balka still standing. “Oh, yes. Girl, come here.”

If Enon could face this monster boldly, so could she. Balka came closer and kept her chin up.

“Where did you send him?” she demanded.

“He will return soon enough.” The woman lowered her lashes over her dark eyes. “How you fear for him! Don’t you trust him? Believe in your Hero?”

 _He wasn’t the Hero!_ “How could I not fear for the safety of the man I love?”

The woman laughed. Balka was beginning to hate her laugh. “And what a man he is! He will serve me well.”

“You will keep your promise,” Balka said sternly. “Any harm comes to me, he will destroy you.”

The sorceress suddenly leaned forward. She gripped Balka’s face, turning it side to side.

“Why would I harm such a lovely young jewel?” she murmured. Her nails bit into Balka’s skin. “A pity you have no power. As useless as the rest of your kind. Jushi.”

“My lady?”

“Put her with the other workers.”

Jushi gripped her arm. Balka gave a sharp twist, breaking free. “I am the Lady Balka Terpandra, betrothed of Enon of Ordon, Prince of the House Dhatin. Do not dare to touch me!”

Jushi’s face reddened. The woman’s chuckle stilled his advance.

“Gently,” she said sweetly. “No harm may befall her from our hands. Did you not feel the Oath?”

Balka did, suddenly. A weight hanging over them, watchful eyes.

Jushi sneered. “Their Goddess has no power here.”

“Do not underestimate Their interest in Their chosen,” the woman cautioned.

Jushi bowed low. “I understand, my Queen.”

The woman turned her dark eyes back to Balka. “Cause me any irritation, girl, and you will learn how little I care for the wrath of a Goddess. Even Heroes can fall.”

“Come,” Jushi commanded. Balka went, head high, knife gripped tight in her hand.

 

She was shoved into a dark room. The stones were bare, a chill oozing along the floor.

Jushi spoke to a woman sitting by the door. “A girl laborer. Don’t beat her too much; she must be alive when he returns.”

The woman was gray. Gray hair, gray skin, gray, shapeless clothing. Even her voice was dull and monotonous.

“What work do you know?” she asked.

Balka held herself firm, though her knees wanted to tremble. Hard to hide in trousers and boots. The gray woman saw Balka’s stubbornness, the refusal.

 “You will work, or you will not eat.”

The others in the room were waking up, leaning on elbows to watch this exchange. Their thin faces were slack, hopeless.

Balka’s pride warred with her commonsense. “I am a lady of blood. I have been educated in all household tasks and management.” Poorly, as she managed to shirk a fair number of her lessons.

The woman’s smile was a pale echo of her mistress’ cruel one. “You will work as I assign you. If you slow the others down, you will be punished.”

Balka sniffed and went to her bed. It was a thin mat laid on a wood frame. She was not large and it was hardly wide enough for her. She actually was grateful for it. It was more than she expected, more than she had been used to, sleeping on the ground in the growing winter.

But no Enon to hold her, watch over her. No soldier ready to defend her with his own life.

She had to sit, her legs wobbling and numb. He was gone. If he loved her, then why had he left her alone in this awful place? What would she do if he never came back?

She pushed the thought away, her panic threatening to overwhelm her. She prayed desperately to her Goddess. Would it reach Her so far from home?

_Keep him safe. Please, please keep him safe._

 

The sun was hot and oppressive. He squinted against it, shielding his eyes. The noise was like the ocean, but deeper, menacing, roaring.

A shadow fell over him. A hoarse yell. He jerked around, the club aimed for his head.

The gravel of the arena scraped his back and chest as he jumped to the side, rolling clear of the blow. The spiked club slammed into the ground, chips of rock spraying in all directions.

The roaring grew, swelling. The giant raised the club again, growling behind a mask.  He snarled answering challenge, wordless and full of hate, teeth bared.

The giant swung for him. The spikes dripped with the blood of those already slain. They had been weak, slow, scared. He was none of those things.

He clenched his knife, the razored edge white and pearly in the sun. This beast laughed, slamming the club into the ground, pushing him back.

He kept his feet and his head, working this lumbering cretin around. He stilled, baiting him. It did not see the danger, too eager for the kill.

The club swung and stuck, the spikes digging into the hard wood of the arena gate. He leapt. The straining muscles of its leg were hard under his foot. The club hot and sticky, the beast’s arm slick with sweat.

The bone knife slid effortlessly into the base of its skull, the point glistening where it protruded out its gaping, wet mouth.

He landed on all fours and watched with seething pleasure as the giant fell. The ground shook.

The stamp of their feet was as thunder. He stood and wiped the sweat from his face. He retrieved his knife, carved from one of the fangs of his headdress, the leering skull of a _nazus_. Its hide clothed his loins, its claws hung around his neck.

They chanted his name as he raised the knife into the air, blood running down his arm.

“ _Nazus_! _Nazus_!”


	9. Into the Pits

Balka was clumsy at her work, but still stronger than the wretches she labored with. As she scrubbed floors and carried water, she did what she could to ease the others’ load.

They were not grateful for it.

“You will cause us both punishment!” a woman hissed when Balka tried to help lift a heavy bucket. “Do your own work!”

She did, from before sunrise until late into the night. Seething and bitter, but she worked. Enon would pay dearly for these numbing days. As she scrubbed linens and carried coal buckets, she plotted her revenge.

First, he would take her to the Grennia hot springs, where he would rub her aching feet and shoulders and bring her cool drinks. Then, he would go to the Bevarines and bring her enough _tobira_ down to fill the world’s thickest, fluffiest mattress.

She wanted silk sheets from Gerudo Town. And that spicy rice dish from the street vendor next to Risa’s shop. And a pair of the woman’s glittering diamond earrings, just because. Then a heaping dish of _zukrea_. She had no idea what the Ordonian treat tasted like, but she wanted some and he would procure for her.

Once clean and warm and full…Balka blushed, even as she scrubbed the stones of the front hall. Another thing she did not have personal experience with but wanted from him. Why had she been such a proud fool? They were old enough to marry. Why had they wasted so much time?

A tear dripped from her nose to the wet floor. What would she do if he didn’t come back? How could she forgive herself? What if he-?

The peculiar shuffling clatter of an _usker_ interrupted her worries. She ducked out of the way, scowling as it tracked mud across her still wet floor. She lifted her face to glare at it and found it watching her.

She knew she should draw back, avoid its attention. They were _crytch_ , she had learned, and still had the lust for human flesh.

It stilled, tail twitching. She gripped her scrub brush and the hilt of her knife. She did know why they let her keep it. Maybe they knew she would not do anything to risk Enon’s safety. The Lady’s threat still clutched at her heart: _even Heroes can fall._

The _usker’s_ eye flicked across her. Then it moved on. She let out her breath, the sweat on her face sending prickles down her neck as a draft chilled her.

She found another of the servants in the basement, a girl named Brenta. She sniffed quietly, trying to lift her bucket to empty the dirty water into the scullery drain.

Balka gripped the handle and helped her tip it over the edge.

“My thanks,” Brenta whispered. She kept her face down, the long hood these people wore over their hair falling past her face. The sliver of cheek Balka could see was swollen and discolored.

Balka gripped her shoulders and turned her around.

Brenta looked away, her eye swollen shut. Her lips were split, a still oozing cut on the upper one.

“What happened?” Balka demanded.

Brenta only shook her head. Balka let her go. That night she crept over to the girl’s bed. Brenta started awake, a breathless ‘ _don’t’_ telling Balka enough to set her blood on fire. The girl sobbed silently, as Balka stroked her hair.

She managed to stay by Brenta’s side the next few days. It meant taking the nastiest jobs. Brenta was low in the servant’s hierarchy, slaves really. She was weak and tearful, drawing the ire of the other workers.

Balka held her breath and dumped a latrine bucket over the wall into the river. She sincerely hoped they fished upstream.

Brenta took her empty buckets and went inside. Balka faced the cold air gladly. Some days, working in the bowels of the keep, she forgot the outside world existed. She took a last deep breath and went inside.

She almost walked past them, but for recognizing Brenta’s trembling whisper.

“ _Please, no_!”

A man laughed, low and cruel. Balka dropped her buckets. The man had Brenta pressed against the wall, her arm twisted back.

“Hey!” Balka snapped, her voice hoarse from disuse. “Let her go!”

It was one of the Lady’s men, a mage or whatever they were. He sneered at her. “Be gone, girl.”

Brenta’s mouth moved soundlessly. _Go, Balka!_

Balka gripped her knife. She dare not draw it or she would kill him and Enon would be lost. “Let her go. Now.”

The man laughed, fingers biting into Brenta’s skin. “Do you offer in her place?”

Surprise was her strength. She strode toward him. He reached out to grab her. She knocked his hand aside and slammed her fist into his face.

Six months ago, that would have been ineffectual. But since then she had ridden half across the world, climbed mountains, forded rivers, split wood, and spent weeks hauling loads up and down the endless stairs of this Goddess-forsaken place.

The man stumbled back and Brenta slipped away.

“Leave her alone, pig.”

He wiped the blood from his lip. She met his hard eyes unflinchingly.

“You will pay for this, slave.”

Balka said nothing, only stared at him until he sneered and stormed away.

Hands shaking, her wrist sore, she went back to her buckets. That night Brenta came to her.

“Please, don’t do such again,” she whispered fearfully. “It only makes him worse.”

Balka touched the girl’s hand. She flinched even from that gesture. “Brenta, I cannot do nothing.”

_I have to do this._

“Please, it is no matter.”

Balka hissed. “He has no right to touch you!”

“If not him, then another,” Brenta said hopelessly.

Balka gripped the girl’s hand, holding it tight. “Stay with me. I will protect you.”

Brenta did not answer, but her fingers tightened for a moment and then she was gone.

 

The gray woman stopped her the next morning.

“You, pits.”

It was not Balka’s turn, but she knew well enough why she was being sent. She sniffed disdainfully and the woman’s cruel smile faltered a little.

“You, too,” the woman said, snapping at Brenta.

Brenta shivered next to Balka as they turned for the stairs into the caverns below the palace.

“Don’t worry,” Balka told her. “I will keep you safe.”

They took the lantern left at the base of the stairs and lit it. Waiting next to it were buckets of half rotten meat scraps. Balka forced down her retch and took bucket in each hand. Brenta copied her, their lantern sending dancing shadows down the slimy walls.

The quiet rustling raised the hairs on her body, every instinct screaming for her to run. These dark caverns were where the _uskers_ lived.

The air carried the cloying scent of putrid meat, musky reptile scent, and the cold, heavy smell of the earth. Eyes shone in the darkness. They blinked, following them as they carried to buckets to the center room.

Here, some semblance of order had been established. Spears lay in a jumbled pile. Discarded bones in another corner. There were several standing from the mess, long and straight. Human?

Balka tipped the meat into the large basin at the center of the room. Brenta did the same, visibly trembling in the lamplight.

A shadow moved from the wall, growing into the towering form of an _usker_.  Brenta hid as much as she could behind Balka’s slender form.

The beast sniffed the meat and hissed. With displeasure, Balka thought, but how could one tell? She took her bucket and made to leave. A second shadow loomed behind.

Terror was a strange thing. Even as her heart raced and sweat chilled her skin, she felt calm. Ready. She shifted her feet, feeling for traction on the dirt floor. The knife was a golden sheen in the flames of the lamp.

A barking command. The _usker_ advancing on her growled, twisting to peer into the darkness.

A third came up. “She must live!”

The other growled, protesting. “Hungry!”

“Girl not meat. Must live for man!”

Enon, Balka realized. This creature knew of the Oath Enon placed on her? She lifted the lamp to see better.

Its flat eye stared back. The lamp turned its teeth yellow. The left fang was broken off.

“Yska?” she asked.

It twisted its head, blinking. “Balka.”

Brenta shuddered. “It knows you?” she squeaked.

“Yska brought us here from Mave.” Balka explained. Others had crept out of the darkness to nose the soggy mess of scraps. She watched them pick through the pile, growling as they squabbled over it.

“Girl not meat,” Yska said again, lip curling as the others hissed rebelliously. “Mistress says. Must live. Curse on us. On Tereine.”

The eyes made her neck itch, even hidden down here in the bowels below the castle. Two smaller _uskers_ fought over a bone, slashing with claws as long as her fingers.

One with a symbol like Yska’s on its chest tipped a bucket over and its disgust was obvious.

“Curse. Yes, curse on us.”

Balka took a deep breath of the fetid air. “I can bring you better food.”

Their eyes all turned to her, round and luminous.

“Man?” they asked hopefully. “Man?”

“No,” Balka said firmly.

They hissed at her.

“What food?” Yska demanded.

“I will bring better scraps next time.”

Yska leaned to peer at her closely. “Why?”

Why? For one, she did not want to be eaten. “You kept your promise.”

Yska sniffed her, its hot breath blowing over her face. “Promise? When?”

“You did not harm the people of Mave. You brought Enon to the Mistress.”

More hissing, growling, fear.

“When? When bring food?”

Balka gripped Brenta’s arm, pulling her along. “I will try to bring some when I work the scullery next. Maybe tomorrow.”

They were allowed to leave. Brenta sobbed until they reached the surface, Balka looking neither left nor right as their eyes followed them in the darkness.

She had to sit on the steps. Her hands shook as she sheathed her knife and doused the lantern.

Brenta’s teeth chattered. “H-how are y-you going to f-find them-m food?”

Balka didn’t know. And she would have to, or the next time she was sent to the pits, she would not leave again.

 

Dinu eyed her suspiciously. “Why?”

Balka managed a convincing cough. “I’ll take any assignment you want, when I’m better. Please Dinu. You can have my ration tomorrow, too.”

Dinu considered, then shrugged. “I will.”

“Thank you,” Balka said sincerely. He was one of the few who remained easy going, free from bitterness. Balka wasn’t sure if his fatalistic aplomb was any healthier than the others’ sullen discontent, but it was certainly easier to deal with.

 

The kitchens were steamy and hot. She sweated as she worked, a real ache in her throat. It was cold at night and the food pitiful. How long until she was sick and broken like the rest of them? Why did they tolerate such drudgery? When would Enon come rescue her from this awful place?

How to sneak some fresh meat? If she could get outside, she could trap something for them. Or had all the game and fish been wiped out in this area? But none of the workers inside the castle were allowed to leave. The ones who died were replaced with others.

No one spoke of their homes, their families. There was no laughter, no friendships. It made her homesick as she had never felt for Hyrule Castle. The easy jokes of the servants, the guards. Her family, her stupid, squabbling family.

She missed them so sharply she could hardly breathe. What was she doing here? Why had she been so rebellious, so short-sighted? Even for a man she loved, this was madness. He had been gone for weeks, a month at least.

“Stop being slow!”

Balka ducked a blow aimed for her head. The ladle missed her and she scurried out of range.

“Get more onions!”

She grabbed a basket and hurried to the pantry. A partially deboned deer haunch lay on a carving table. Its keeper was turned away. Balka lifted her basket and knocked it to the dirty floor.

She clenched her teeth against the beating. She endured it for a few minutes, then scrambled out of range.

“I’ll get another,” she gasped, head throbbing. She hefted the meat and ran as fast as she could into the meat locker.

It was icy inside, aided by spells and the weather. Balka shivered with more than cold. The Lady’s magic always grated on her, like groping fingers across her skin.

She secreted the ruined meat away in her basket. She found another small haunch tucked behind a larger carcass hung to cure and hid it away, too. Would she be able to get back in here? The scullery doors were just outside, the stairs to the pits beyond those. It was a risk, but she would try.

She brought a new haunch to the cook and was sent away with a kick and curse.

Brenta gasped when she saw the bruises. “Balka!” she said. “What did happen?”

Balka shrugged, trying to emulate Enon’s dispassion. “Just a beating.”

Brenta’s eyes filled with tears. “You must run!” she pleaded. “Please, go, before they break you, too.”

Balka set her chin. “I am Balka Terpandra of Hyrule. They cannot break me.”

She hoped.

 

She woke early and was assigned to the pits again. She kept her face carefully neutral. The gray woman was starting to eye her with displeasure.

She slipped into the locker and out, praying to Hylia, Ordona, Faroe, every goddess she had ever heard of. No one saw her. She lit the lantern and set it on her basket. It was a long walk alone in the dark. She had forced Brenta to stay behind, not wanting to risk the girl if she was caught. If the _uskers_ did not like her offering.

They waited for her, drawn by the smell.

She set the basket down. Yska was there again. What would happen on the day the leader of these beasts wasn’t here to control them?

“Deer. Two haunches. It was all I could carry.”

The muscles in her back burned after the beating, stiff and fiery. And they did this to children in Ordon? Would Enon expect their children to be disciplined so? Though, it likely would have done Nelsin good.

Yska sniffed the meat and growled. A happy growl, Balka thought.

“More? More?” They pressed up around her.

“I will try.”

Yska gave her that piercing, one-eyed look again. “Why? Why bring meat?”

“You kept your promise. And Enon is sorry for what he did.”

“Kill us?”

“Yes. He did not know you were like men.”

That drew all their eyes. “ _Usker_ like men?” Yska repeated blankly.

“Talking, intelligent, honorable. We have your kind in my country, but they are beasts. Cruel, vicious. They kill for pleasure.”

“ _Usker_ like men.” It was half a question.

“Enon is sorry he killed them. I am sorry he killed them. Please forgive us.”

“ _Usker_ like men.”

Balka nodded. “I will bring more if I can.”

She walked back in the darkness, the skin between her shoulder blades crawled. The crunching of bones echoed in her head for long after she returned to the surface.

 

No matter he was a prized slave, he still walked with a chain around his neck. After the fall of the giant, he had been sold to this man, Aren, for what he learned was an exorbitant price. The guards watched him warily.

They were heading south and uphill. A volcano rose before them, seething and restless. He sympathized with it.

Aren made him fight the other slaves when they stopped to rest. The guards’ coarse laugh mixed with the ragged breaths of the unfortunate man he faced. Smaller, weaker, he had no chance.

“Finish him already!” Aren called.

The other slave’s eyes were already dead, dull and hopeless. He hesitated.

“Do it,” the man whispered hoarsely.

He didn’t want to.

“He’ll kill us both.” The man’s gaunt face twisted into a half smile. “And my wife waits for me there.”

He understood that loneliness too well. “May the Goddess welcome you.”

“And you, friend.”

Aren guffawed, mocking the man’s death. “True to your name, Nazus! I’ll be able to retire on what Baeark will pay for you.”

He honed his knife. He watched Aren chortle, lounged on an elaborate chair carried by six of his slaves. Whoever this Baeark was, hopefully he would command him kill to Aren first.


	10. The Flame of Eldin

They were waiting for her but Yska was not there this time. Balka kept her face calm, her movements smooth and slow as she set the still oozing beef on the floor of their common room. It was the largest space, she had learned, connected by crisscrossing tunnels that led into the depths below the castle.

The _uskers_ fell on the treat. It was gone in moments.

“More? More?”

“I will try,” she promised. That did not satisfy them. They eyed her closely. She stood firm. Running would do nothing. She would rather face her death.

They hissed to each other, half speech, half sibilant grunts.

“If you kill me, you are no more than _beasts!”_ she scolded them fiercely.

A few checked, heads cocked in that peculiar way. Others did not care, tongues flicking in and out.

“And no one will bring you more meat.” That got their attention. “They hate you, revile you. Think you are worthless. They laugh at you.”

Pride was universal, she was discovering. A failing of all man-like creatures? Priestess Kahlin would have a lecture on it. Balka swore to her goddess she would listen attentively when she returned home.

Now they hissed in anger. “Who laughs? Who?”

“Mistress’ men. They laugh at you, call you stupid, ugly.”

More anger. “Why? _Why_?”

“They are scared of you.”

That pleased them. “Scared of _usker_?”

Balka swallowed and spoke the truth. “I am scared of you. You are large and strong. You could do anything you wanted to me.”

This damp, echoing place was nothing like that quiet room in the castle. But the same fear rose up. Helplessness, confusion, the sharp taste of hate. She had hated Enon in those moments. And after, for many months, for his betrayal, the knowledge that if he had not stopped, she could not have protected herself.

She was weeping, longing for him, guilty about the kernel of fear she still felt when he touched her. He _had_ stopped and acknowledged his error, had respected her, had proven he truly loved her. Would this fear ever leave her? Could she ever fully trust him? Was what he did unforgivable?

The _uskers_ watched uncomprehending as she sobbed, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of it, of all that hung over her.

One of the smarter ones, one who controlled the others, asked her, “Girl weeps?”

She wiped her nose, hating herself a little, too. What use were her tears? What had she done to aid him, other than survive?

“I miss Enon.”

“Why?”

“I love him.” She did, so much. It made no sense.

“Love?” It didn’t understand.

“He is my mate.”

It blinked at her. “Where girl’s mate?”

“That witch took him!” she said angrily. “Your mistress!”

They cringed, muttering. She had been here too long.

“I have to go. I will be missed and they will beat me.”

“Come here again?”

“I will try. I promise, I will try to bring more. If they catch me stealing food, they will kill me.”

“Eat girl?” one asked hopefully.

The smarter one snapped at it, teeth clicking together as it scrambled back.

“Not eat girl! Who bring meat if eat girl?”

Balka gathered her basket and hurried off, still sniffing, but for the first time not feeling hungry eyes on her back.

 

The heat was physically oppressive. Several of the slaves fell, overwhelmed. They were left to be scavenged.

Aren’s coarse humor was absent as they neared the Goron stronghold. He nervously sipped from a bottle, filled with supposed heat-resistant potion. Fool; there was no magic in this world. Only hunger and death.

A half dozen Goron stood guard outside the entrance to Baeark’s dominion. Aren approached them cautiously.

“Lead me to your king!” he commanded. His voice echoed back from inside the cave.

The Goron stared at him. Then a low rumble, a voice so deep it was felt more than heard. They were allowed to pass. He disliked the heavy feel of the earth above him. It was dark and smelled of sulfur.

This Baeark was a mountain himself. He sat on a throne of silver and diamonds, their facets tinted orange by the glow of the fires.

“Aren,” the Goron king said. “More worthless slaves to peddle?”

The man’s voice was whining, cringing. “I bring you many strong slaves, mighty one. And a Hylian warrior, the likes you have never seen.”

He frowned, remembering. “Ordonian.”

One of Aren’s guards whirled on him and struck with his whip. “Silence, worm!”

His palm stung as he caught the lash. The guard choked, face purple under his grip.

“I am of _Ordon_ ,” he snarled.

The other guards attacked him. He had drawn his knife, ready to die here, when Baeark laughed.

They backed away as he stood. The bedrock trembled under his feet.

“For once, Aren, you speak truth.” Baeark’s eyes were completely black. “There is no match for the sons of Ordon. What is your price?”

He did not hear Aren’s answer. A glint of red on Baeark’s chest caught his attention. Deeper than the magma of the caldera, glowing with its own inner fire.

An answering fire rose in him.

“I will enjoy killing this one,” Baeark said. “Will you stay to watch?”

“Sadly, I must continue my journey,” Aren said mournfully. The chain around his neck was removed. “Farewell, friend Baeark.”

He was thrown in a dark pit. A rock whistled, narrowly missing his head. The Gorons laughed meanly and slouched away.

The walls were too smooth to climb. He sat cross-legged on the stone floor and waited.

 

He woke from a dream of cool breezes over fields of green. A ladder hit the ground with a clang.

“Up!”

Once out of the pit, he was led to a wide space, lit by the sun filtering through clouds of ash and steam.

“Choose.” He was shoved toward a weapon stand. He touched the hilt of a sword but drew back. What had happened to his sword?

Baeark arrived. His people cheered for him, perched on cliffs all around, jeering and mocking.

“It has been many years since I fought one of your kind,” the king said. “Don’t disappoint me.”

The ruby still hung from his neck, a pendant of some sort.

“Nazus, they call you.” Baeark went on. The Goron king held a club of stone “Apt. I have seen your kind in battle. Ruthless, hungry.”

Those fires in him stirred restlessly, angry. Defensive. His people were honorable; they were not monsters.

He jumped aside, barely finding his feet before scrambling back as the club narrowly missed his head on the return swing. He fell back again and again, the power of this creature greater than any he had faced.

Baeark laughed, making the air shudder. The heat stole his breath, the coarse bellows of the others filling his ears. His knife would do little against the Goron’s thick hide.

Baeark’s flat black eyes watched him. He should try to escape; there was no honor in death here, murdered by this slavering beast.

The pendant swung, catching the light.

Baeark grew bored. “Is this the might of Ordon?” he taunted.

His pride had died with his people. Why else would he stoop to killing for food, tolerate being a slave? What purpose did his life have now?

He had been backed against a wall, distracted by useless philosophical musing. Baeark charged, club swinging. He sprinted to meet him, stupid and suicidal. He saw Baeark’s sneer of triumph before throwing himself down. Stones cut his legs as he slid under the monstrous beast.

Baeark screamed in pain and fury. Goron blood was as black as their eyes. He twisted, landing in a crouch as Baeark stumbled, wounded in the leg.

“I will kill you slowly, human.”

He wiped sweat from his face and grinned. He could not fight much longer. It was too hot, the air thick with volcanic gases, choking him. Already his limbs felt distant, numbed. His vision was narrowing.

He needed that pendant.

Baeark came forward more cautiously. Black ichor oozed down his leg.

The weapon stand was close. He rolled away from Baeark’s strike, leaving the knife buried in the flesh of the beast’s arm. Baeark bellowed.

The spear was unwieldy, poorly balanced. The Gorons no longer cheered.

This was his last chance. Baeark bore down on him, club raised. He sprinted to meet him.

Baeark dropped and swung low, sweeping across the ground. The spearpoint caught in a fissure in the floor, the thick shaft flexing under his weight.

The Goron’s body was searing hot under his bare feet. The knife ripped free, the serrations catching on the hard Goron flesh.

Baeark’s mighty hand closed around his leg. The pendant was warm in his hand. He was thrown. He hit the ground on his back, curling up to protect himself as he slid across the rough floor.

His vision was gray with pain, fatigue, heat. The ground rumbled. A shadow loomed over him, Baeark, club raised to end him.

The facets of the stone cut into his palm.

Death was supposed to be painless. It was what his father, his uncle, had promised him. It was the only comfort they had as they fell one by one, knowing that soon it would be their turn to rest.

This…this was agony. The fire chewing up his arm, wrapping him in searing coils. Burrowing into his chest to twine around his heart.

But with it came power. Strength. He pushed from the ground.

Baeark drew back. “Who _are_ you?”

The hilt was slippery in his hand as the gold dripped to pool on the stones. “I am Enon of Ordon,” he snarled. “Son of Enon, Last of the Dhatin.”

The Goron king backed away, showing fear for the first time. He looked to the cliffs around, to his silent, watching people.

“Where is it?” Enon demanded. “Where is the Sword?”

Baeark did not answer but made a sharp call. Gates clanged open all around. Gorons menaced him from all sides, spears leveled.

Enon felt the power of the volcano under him, the very earth he stood on. The mighty serpent slumbering below. And there, behind a cluster of them, the way out.

Baeark continued to urge his people forward, demanding his death, the return of the ruby. As satisfying as it would be to kill the beast, Enon had what he came for.

They advanced on him. Enon clenched his fist, drawing on the rage of the fires, his own anger and hopelessness. His hands glowed brighter even than the living earth as he slammed them into the ground.

The Gorons screamed as the mountain bucked. The earth itself shrieked, tearing apart. He ran, the ground heaving under him, ignited by his fury.

The air in the canyon was cold on his skin. It was raining in the valley below. The drops hissed where they touched him.

The power of the mountain slowly calmed. He could hear its sullen murmurs, reluctantly returning to its rest. Like the hunger in him, knowing he could destroy everything, wanting to even as he feared such power.

He washed in a clear pool, the soot and blood, the stink of that hellish place. But his hands stayed golden, shimmering in the waters


	11. The Might of Ordon

Only three fish and a plucked bird of some sort for the _uskers_ today. The head cook had started accusing the slaves of theft. She would have to be more careful. Maybe she could sneak into the dovecot or the pigeon coop. The chickens were scrawny. Maybe _uskers_ like eggs?

Balka kept her head down as she walked briskly back to her assigned work. The others ignored her. Had she been here long enough to blend into the slaves? Was she becoming as colorless and resigned as they were?

She carried a heavy basket of clean linens up the back stairs. They were never allowed into the Lady’s bed chamber. She had private servants who tended her. Balka left the basket outside the servant’s entrance and collected the one to be washed.

“…sooner than I expected.”

Balka paused, listening close as the Lady’s melodic voice drifted to her. Balka pressed her ear against the door.

“I came as soon as I saw, my lady. He has the first stone.” It was another woman.

A stone? Enon! He had succeeded?

The Lady murmured something. Then, “All is prepared?”

“Yes, mistress. I am ready.”

“Don’t enjoy yourself _too_ much.”

The other woman laughed. “How could I not, with a man such as he?”

Balka did not like that at all.

“Broken, not dead, yes, my pet?”

“Yes, my lady.”

The woman left and steps came toward the door. Balka grabbed her washing and lumbered down the stairs.

 

Who was that woman? And what did she want with Enon?

Balka mused over it as she scrubbed endless sheets and toweling. Brenta sat next to her, working her soapy brush, chatting in whispery bursts.

It was exhaustive labor. She would never take clean sheets for granted again. She would pay her house workers double what they were contracted now. Enon was a prince; she would demand it from whatever treasury supported him.

As Brenta’s rambling talk washed over her, she thought yet again about their future. It was easier to see in the light, away from the Lady’s hideous, beautiful laugh, out of the cold dark of the caverns.

Would they live in both Ordon and Hyrule? Who would inherit the throne of Ordon, now Link was the Consort? Would _she_ be Lady of Ordon?

The idea was so absurd, she could not visualize herself holding such a role. _She_ , in charge of a nation? _She_ , ruling on domestic matters and directing social issues?

Enon was born to rule, had been raised in the discipline of kingship. She…well, she had managed passable marks in most subjects, mainly because her sisters each had a field of interest. Her crowning achievement was not breaking any limbs for all the trees she climbed.

The wrangle took both their strength. Once the sheets were no longer sopping, she and Brenta lugged the baskets up to the main floor. The kitchen garden consisted of stark walls around empty beds.

The wash stirred in the wind. They were red and shivering by the time they finished. They huddled close together as they walked half-asleep back to the slave quarters.

Her only warning was Brenta’s gasp. Rough hands grabbed her from behind, one over her mouth, the other her throat. He dragged her back into a dark corner.

She let him, waiting for the right moment to fight.

It was Aster, predictably. His wet mouth touched her cheek, her arm wrenched around behind her back.

“No one here to save _you_ , is there?”

Balka heard the last patters of Brenta’s feet as they rounded the corner. She did not blame the girl, not after a life of oppression and fear.

Aster wanted to hear _her_ fear. He lifted his hand free.

“You will beg for death, pig.”

Aster laughed, nails biting into her. “You think your prince will return for you?” He stroked her face, her neck. She hoped he would be stupid enough to come in range of her teeth. “He may return, little one, but not for you. Not as you knew him.”

Broken, but not dead. Aster slid his hand down her dress.

The bones of his nose and wrist made satisfying crunches under her hands.

He howled, spitting blood and curse words at her. She could not defend against his magic. She curled up as he beat her, unable to rise from the ground.

The world grew dim and numb. There was a scrabbling, a snarl. A hoarse cry. Something crouched over her, hissing.

She opened her eyes to find a scaly underbelly inches from her face.

“Girl lives! Man says!”

Aster was torn between fury and terror. Self-preservation won. He stumbled away, calling for others to come, to help him.

Yska’s blunt snout bent down to peer at her. “Balka hurt? Mage hurt Balka?”

“Yes, but Yska, you must not! You will be punished!”

Yska’s growl was terrifying, even not directed at her.

“Girl bring food. Girl promise!”

“They must not know!” Balka said urgently. “It must be secret! Or Mistress will kill me!”

Yska’s grunted. “ _Usker_ keep promise. No harm girl with food.”

Balka reached out with shaking fingers. Yska’s scales were as smooth as the ones she found, but warm. Scarred, along the jaw, the same side as the broken tooth.

Yska seemed unsure, wary, then pressed its muzzle into Balka’s hand. Inviting, Balka realized. She rubbed the hard bone and Yska’s eyes half-closed. Had they ever been caressed before?

The stamp of feet snapped the _usker_ ’ _s_ eyes open. It spit rage at the mages who arrived in a breathless rush.

“Hand her over to us!” one commanded.

Yska refused.

“Worm!” It was Jushi. Balka felt a spring of hope. Jushi was cruel to the _uskers_ , kicking them, spitting at them. “Obey! Or the Lady will return you to what you were!”

Yska wilted a little. Balka wiggled free.

“Balka!” Yska protested. Balka stood and wiped blood from her forehead.

“All is well,” she promised her protector. She turned to the assembled enemy.

“No harm?” she demanded. “Is this how the great mages of Tereine treat those under Oath? Or are you eager to face the Hero’s wrath when he returns and finds me raped and murdered?”

She watched their faces. Some were wary, some contemptuous, amused. Broken, the Lady had said. She was a fool; nothing could break him.

“You attacked a blood mage,” Jushi declared.

 She set her shoulders. “And I will again, should he dare place his filthy hands on me.”

Yska’s rumbling growl added weight to her threat. Jushi smiled thinly. “You will be punished. And _you_ , _usker_.”

Yska drew up to its full height. Even those with magic glowing in their palms backed up. A tense silence held, then the _usker_ moved on. Balka saw others, their eyes in the shadows, watching this. They blinked at her, then followed their leader into the darkness beneath.

Jushi spoke to a subordinate. “Kill it.” He turned to Balka. “Come here, girl.”

 

She held her chin high, even as the blood dried and itched down her back. She had blacked out, thankfully, and only remembered the first few minutes.

The other slaves watched her with wide eyes. She went to her bed and sat.

It hurt, but the pain was somehow apart from her. Shock, she reasoned. She understood now his phrase: striped. She could feel them, long lines of fire across her back. Though she doubted even Link would beat his favorite so badly, no matter the accusations of nepotism.

Brenta helped her undress. Helped her lie on her stomach. Helped her sip some broth. Another woman, Talo, she thought, smoothed some sticky balm across the welts, leaving a tingling coolness that smothered the fire of it. Dinu asked particulars about which mages were assaulting the girls. He and another man exchanged looks, their mouths grim.

Balka fell asleep smiling. She could not be broken. The Lady would learn the might of Balka of Ordon.

 

Castle Town lay in ruins. It was jarring, memories just beyond reach telling him this was wrong. The sagging gates, the broken cobbles. The people.

People still lived in the dilapidated houses. Survived, more like. He couldn’t call their mean existence _living_. The fields outside the city were fallow, only a few planted and tended in limp, uneven rows.

He drew little attention, even before he found clothing. The headdress leered at him from the corner of the room. The missing front fang gave it lopsided smirk that was not the least amusing. The knife was light in his hand.

He sheathed it and straightened the heavy tunic he had found. Stolen, from a man lying drunk in an alley.

The citizens watched him with dull, uninterested faces. He avoided them, if possible. Their emptiness made his skin crawl. He needed boots. The soft skin shoes he wore were shredding as he walked. It had been a long trek, following the call of the stone to this goddess-forsaken place.

“You! Stop!”

Enon turned. It was a soldier, a guard of some sort. Of what, he did not know. Others looked out from a doorway, a window.

Enon faced the man. “What do you want?”

The spear leveled. “Who are you?”

“I am Enon of Ordon.”

“ _Ordon?_ ”

The man’s spear dropped to threaten the ground as he laughed. “Well, then, it’s my lucky day.”

The others were smiling as they surround him.

“I thought we’d got all of you,” the guard was saying. “Drinks on me tonight, boys!”

Enon stood firm. “Let me pass.”

“You must be insane, coming here. But that’s you Ordonians, too proud to surrender, even as your children starved.”

His wife, their child, both dead of exposure as they fled from Ganon’s hunters. The fire in him was as hungry as his people as they fell, one by one.

“Please, do,” the man invited, mouth gaping in a smile. “It’s been a long time since I got to kill one you bastards.”

 

Enon stamped into the boots. They fit well enough, a little small in the calf. The balance of the Hylian’s sword was passable. Where was _his_ Sword?

The citizens stared blankly as he stripped the bodies of anything useful. He sniffed a canteen and grimaced, tossing the liquor aside. No wonder they had been so easy to kill, half drunk and untrained.

The tramp of feet, the muffled alarm of the people. Enon took a running leap and swung up onto a roof. It was a short jump to another, leaning against a large stone building, maybe an old factory.

Shouts and the sharp cry of the people, protesting, denying any involvement in the death of the guards. Speaking of a man, a demon whose hands held searing flames as he slaughtered the Hylian soldiers. Enon left them behind, following the call of the stones.

 

Link looked up from his work, endless reports, to find his son standing in the doorway.

“Does _ama_ need me, Cantor?”

The boy was frowning. “ _Tama_ , is it wrong to kill?”

The reports seemed suddenly more appealing. “It depends on why you take the life.”

Cantor considered this. “I suppose he did right, then.”

“Whom?”

“Enon.” Cantor wrinkled his nose, his mother’s nose. “It’s strange. It is like he is here, but…not. I could hear his voice, out in the garden.”

“Enon is in Hyrule?”

Cantor didn’t answer for a long time. “Daddy, what would have happened if you had killed _ama_?”

Link gripped the desk, vision narrow. Her face, white and bleeding below him. The Sword hot and angry in his hands.

“Daddy?”

“I…I don’t know, Cantor. I don’t like to think about it.”

His son climbed into his lap. Curled his arms around his neck. “Don’t be afraid, _tama_.”

He hugged his boy tightly, this precious boy, his first born. A promise, hope, proof she loved him, wanted him, a life with him, even after all he had done to hurt her.

He kissed the boy’s blond hair, the same shade as his.

“Is he safe?”

Cantor looked uneasy. “He is searching for something. I can see him more clearly now. But there is a darkness over him.”

“Enon is strong. He will defeat it.”

Cantor grunted. “Daddy, why don’t Hylian parents spank their children?”

Link didn’t follow his change of topic. “What do you mean?”

“I know they do, but it isn’t like _sar’tura_. I think it’s better, to be punished at once and forgiven. Then the debt is paid.”

“That is a very Ordonian way of thinking, my boy. Hylians think we are harsh. They don’t understand, don’t know the cruelty of the Watch.”

Cantor mused over this. “She understands now.”

“Balka?”

He nodded. “She will be a strong queen for him.”

Link tipped up the boy’s chin. “ _You_ are my son. You are the Crown Prince. As much as I love Enon, you come first in my heart and my line.”

Cantor’s wry expression was much too old for his seven years. “Daddy! How can I be a good king when Fara will be much too busy to be my queen?”

Link managed a smile. “A long way off, little one. Now, go play.”

He accepted a kiss, tickled his darling, and sent him off. Cantor paused by the door.

“Be ready, daddy. She will need us soon.”

“I will be, son.”

 

The weapon stand stood empty. He could still feel it; he was still its Master. The fear of losing it was less, but still an ache, hiding under her love and forgiveness.

Her Sword shone bright, even in the darkened room. That it was too short and light for him was only a small part of why he did not use it. It was the Hero’s blade, hard won and sealed in battle.

He touched the diamond at the crosstree. The spirit in the blade stirred but did not speak to him. It never had and never would, he knew. Like the Sword, it had one master.

How would the girl need him, need the Hero? Should he, _could_ he, allow his wife, the mother of his children, to go into battle again? Could he stop her? Or would he bend under the same pressure Enon had, allowing the woman he loved to do something so outrageously dangerous?

Her strong hands slid around his chest, arms encircling him.

“He’ll bring it back,” she murmured.

Link couldn’t help his growl of frustration. “He’ll wish he’d never looked at it when I’m done with him.”

She laughed. “Well, you can’t have mine.”

“I know.”

“What’s troubling you? Aside from Enon’s treachery?”

“Cantor.”

She stiffened, no longer flirtatious, but wary. “What has he seen?”

“Just the same, that we need to be ready.”

“For?”

Hylia and Ordona were silent, unsure. Watching to see what would happen. What Enon would do, what Balka would do.

“He doesn’t say. But how can we help them? They are so far away.” Yet, Cantor had heard Enon’s voice, here in the castle.

Zelda’s hands were soft again. “Come to bed, _volje_. It’s late.”

He sighed. “I’m not tired.”

“The baby is sleeping.”

He grunted, turning to catch her against him. “Not for long.” His youngest had taken after her namesake absolutely, meddling, loud, inconvenient.

Even as his wife laughed and kissed his neck, as they walked to their bedchamber, Link glanced back at the empty stand.

_Be ready. She will need us soon._

 

Balka went down to the pits. She walked boldly through the kitchen. The workers there kept their eyes down. The locker was unguarded. She slipped in and out and made the long trek down to the _usker_ lair.

They were waiting for her. How many lived here? Where did they come from?

She laid the meat down. “I could only carry one.” Her back screamed at her, the muscles twitching as they spasmed.  “Where is Yska?”

“Gone,” they muttered. “Gone away.”

“Killed?”

“No.” If it was smiling, it was ghastly. “Hide, mage cannot find. Stupid man.”

“I am glad. Yska is my friend.”

One came close and sniffed her. Even she could smell the sharp, coppery blood dried into her clothes.

“Smell like meat.”

“They beat me.”

The _usker_ grunted, its moist breath blowing back her hair. It was almost long enough to tuck behind her ear.

“Kill mage?” the thing asked hopefully.

Balka laughed. “No. Not yet.”

That made their eyes gleam. “Eat man? Eat man?”

Balka dared to touch it. It held still, not straining away, but cautious. She rubbed along its jaw as she had Yska’s. Its growl was almost a purr.

“What is your name?”

“Ust.”

She sat on the damp floor. “Ust, where did you come from? Where did the _usker_ come from?”

A few nibbled on the meat she had brought, eyes watching her.

“Mistress called us.”

“Called you?”

“We heard Mistress’ call. We come.”

“Do you remember where you were before?”

Ust blinked at her. “Before?”

“Before you came to serve the Mistress?”

They whispered the word to each other. “Before, before.”

“No,” Ust said, tail lashing. “No before.”

Balka rested her chin in her hands. She had not slept at all, jolted awake by pain each time she managed to drift off.

“In my home, we have creatures like you,” she told them. “But they are mindless beasts. They do not speak, they do not protect like Yska did.”

Ust settled on the floor next to her, lying on its belly, limbs tucked up. “What home?”

“A land called Hyrule. Enon is from a place called Ordon. His people are trained from birth to kill the _crytch_ , monsters like you and many other kinds. That is why he killed those two in the woods.”

“Mistress called man, Enon. Wanted man. We searched in cold mountains and desert. Never found him. Many searches, long searches.”

“Do you know why?”

“No. Mistress punish us. Beat us, kill us. We cannot find man.”

“I’m sorry, Ust.” She laid a hand on the blunt ridges of its spine. “I am sorry she hurt you.”

Out of the darkness came a low, croaking call. The _uskers_ jumped up, listening.

“Girl must go,” Ust said urgently. “Girl must go _now_.”

“What is it?” Ust pushed her with hands and snout.

“Khraka. Go, _go!”_

A memory of Jushi’s threat. _I will cast you to the Khraka with him_

She ran as fast as she could, the _uskers_ fleeing in all directions. She reached the stairs, out of breath and her ribs burning. The call was fainter, but no less menacing.

She was met at the head of them by Jushi himself. He smiled evilly at her. Did he practice it in a mirror, she wondered? It was so grotesque, almost theatrical.

“Slaves who do not complete their work will be punished,” he said. She met his eyes calmly.

“I was assigned to the pits and here I am.”

“You think I am a fool, girl?”

She eyed him, wondering what this was about. He gripped her arm and she could not stop her hiss as his hand closed around a bruise.

“My Lady wants to see you.”

She allowed herself to be dragged along. For someone gifted with magic, he was mundanely physical. He had beat her with a stiff leather whip. Why, when he could have used some magical means of torture?

The Lady was physical, but in a very different way. The slaves had told her horrific stories of those she took a fancy to, their screams and the mess to clean up after.

Balka had just begun to enjoy the warmth in the luxurious room when she slinked in. There was no other way to describe her smooth, graceful stride. The pendant hung around her neck.

The Lady came straight to her and gripped her throat. “You are a fool, Balka of Hyrule. You think you could turn my own creations against me?”

Was this how he felt in battle? Calm, aware of the danger, but apart from it. “Yska acted of her own free will.” She felt sure Yska was female. Ust had brighter colors, larger ridges. Yska could blend into the earth.

“Free will?” The Lady laughed. “How I shall enjoy destroying your hope, little one.” She walked around Balka, touching her. Balka held perfectly still, even as her fingers dragged across the stripes on her back. “I will break you,” the Lady murmured. “But I want _him_ to do it.”

Balka laughed herself. “Enon would never hurt me.”

“You trust his love so strongly?”

Balka met her beautiful glassy eyes. “Yes.”

Something crossed the woman’s face. Ire, maybe, or doubt.

“Jushi!”

The man came in.

“Heal her, then beat her again.”

“My Lady?” Goddess, the man was stupid. Could he not see this woman’s obvious attempt to break her spirit?”

“Every day. Heal her, then beat her.” The Lady’s smile was triumphant. “No harm, as I promised.”

Balka shrugged. “It is your soul, Lady. The Goddesses will judge your actions.”

She snarled. “Get her out of my sight!”

 

Jushi soon lost his pleasure in her punishment. Every morning she would walk to his rooms. He would crudely heal her and administer her punishment. Twenty-five, she learned. She counted them as she cried from pain. Then she wiped her face, still gasping, and stood, eyes hard and unflinching as he leered at her. She tossed her head and went out.

Once, he became angry with her dispassion and attacked her wildly. She scrambled free, running to the slaves’ quarters. He chased her there but was stopped at the door by the other slaves.

“Move!” he bellowed. They stared at him blankly, lined up to receive their meager morning portion. He tried to shove by, but they resisted him. His tantrum was epic, flashes of light and smoke. When he did manage to break through, she was long gone, out the back door and down to the pits.

Ust and Yska laughed as she told them of his fury.

“Eat Jushi first,” Yska promised.

“I hope so,” Balka agreed. They presented her with half a fish.

“Girl hungry?”

“Oh, thank you,” she said sincerely. “But if I eat it, it will make me sick.”

That made them laugh, too. “Man is stupid, sick from fish.”

Balka gave it to another, a male named Grin. He did grin a lot, his mouth full of twisted, razored teeth. He swallowed it whole and nosed her hand.

“Mistress punish us,” Yska told her. “Punish you?”

“Every day,” Balka said. She sighed, wincing. “It hurts.”

Ust looked down at her. “You kill Mistress?”

Balka shook her head. “I am not strong enough. She has powerful magic.”

Yska spoke quietly, as if with great daring. “ _Usker_ kill Mistress?”

How she wanted them to! It would be her greatest pleasure, to watch them devour that hated woman. “No. You must not.”

Yska was confused. “Why?”

“I must get Enon back. I will die if he does not come back to me.” She would. Her heart, her spirit, would not survive losing him. Not like this. To die in battle was one thing. To lose him because of this witch’s magic? She would rather suffer a lifetime of slavery than see that. “And I worry about you.”

“Worry?”

“If her magic called you here, then what will happen when her magic is gone? If she made you, will her death destroy you, too? I cannot do that. It would be murder! You are my friends.”

They made their purring growls, crowding close to nudge her hands. She scratched their ridges, tears in her eyes. How cruel were these people to not see how desperate these creatures were for love, affection? Her own had been pitiful at best, a few treats, some words of kindness. And they had saved her life. Would betray their Mistress for her.

“I must go.”

“Come back?”

“Soon, I promise.”

 

Balka slipped into the laundry. The laundry master saw her and turned away to bark at another slave. Balka scurried to her place in the line. Brenta passed her a brush silently.

“Sorry I am late,” Balka whispered to her.

Brenta’s giggle was more jarring than the howl of the khraka. “You missed it all. It was so funny!”

“What was?”

“Jushi. When he saw you gone, he started setting the beds on fire. Then Amdal started screeching, demanding he put them out. He couldn’t. We had to smother the flames with other sheets. See?” She held up a blackened corner.

Balka took the cloth guiltily. “I am so sorry! Were many destroyed? How can we replace them?”

“Har and Fen will build more,” Brenta said with a shrug. “I will sleep on the floor, just for the fun of seeing Jushi look such a fool!”

Balka wanted to laugh, but felt sick instead. “Oh, Brenta, you mustn’t draw his anger! None of you must be punished for my actions!” Just like the _usker_ , she would not be so selfish as to risk any of them. Brenta squeezed her hand.

“Worry not, brave Balka.”

Amdal, the gray woman, screeched at her, too, when she came back that evening.

“Slattern! Bitch! Whore!” Balka watched amazed as the woman’s cheeks reddened. “I would have you beaten for this!”

But she already was being beaten. And injured slaves couldn’t work.

“Pits! Latrines! All week!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman made noise, part scream, part growl. Balka hurried to her bed. A mat had been laid on the floor, her blanket singed and smelling of burnt hair.

Dinu lay next to her on the floor. “What did you do, girl, to cause Jushi such consternation?”

Balka giggled a little herself. “Could he really not put out the fires?”

Dinu chuckled. “Hopping around like a mad chicken. La, now, gave me ten years of life to see it.”

 

Even with her back aching and arms numbed, Balka went about her work smiling. She tried to hide it, for it only brought more anger from the mages. They were watching her closely. Trying to catch her seeding revolt? They were fools. Weak, as she was beginning to understand.

She smiled when Vel helped carry Dantifu’s load up the backstairs. She smiled when Hurna the mage saw an _usker_ by the East Door and quickly went around the long way to avoid him.

She smiled when Khila slapped the mage who tried to grope her as she scrubbed the floors. And at his blanch of fear as Balka threw down her brush to come to Khila’s aid. The staccato patter of his ornate slippers as he fled her wrath.

Khila straightened her cap and dunked her brush in the soapy water. “Skittish fellow, isn’t he?”

Balka hummed a Gerudo battle song and returned to her work.


	12. The Heart of Faron

The forest was dark and wet. He sweated in the humidity. The trail was winding and rough, climbing over roots as thick as his thigh and around fallen ruins. Strange animals called in the dense undergrowth. He slapped at the biting insects. He hated bugs.

Night was better. Even the damp wood of the jungle lit under his hands. He could not help but stare at the flames dancing in his palm. They were beautiful, hypnotic. His. He made them.

He drew up as a cries broke the monotony of the afternoon. Savage, bestial ones and the shrill call of a woman. He ran toward them.

A small clearing. Four, five _crytch_ standing over a woman huddled on the ground. They shrieked as they saw him, clubs waving madly. They were even easier to kill than the Hylians.

“Are you hurt?”

The woman stared up at him, clutching her torn dress to her body.

He repeated his question, speaking their awkward language. “Woman, are you hurt?”

She sniffed, tears dusting her lashes like diamonds. “I…I don’t think so.”

He helped her to her feet. She blushed, arms across her chest. He drew off his overtunic and pulled it over her head. “What are you doing out here? Where did you come from?”

“My father, we were traveling. He was killed. They chased me.”

He eyed her warily as she wept. She did not look as if she had been traveling. Much too clean, her dark red hair shiny and curling. And she smelled nice, like roses, lilac.

“Will you help me?” she asked tearfully.

He didn’t want to. The call of the stone was strong here, pulling him through the jungle.

“Where were you going?”

“To Weldsted. I have friends there.”

It was the same direction he was going. “Very well. Let’s go.”

For all the grace of her movements, she was clumsy. He had to lift her over obstacles. He lit the fire with a flint that night, unsure why he felt so on edge.

“What is your name?” she asked as she sat on his blanket.

“Enon.”

She said it slowly, almost tasting the syllables.

“And yours?” he asked gruffly.

“Jolene.”

He grunted. “Go to sleep. We have many miles to cover tomorrow.”

She lay down, her hand tucked under her cheek. He tried to keep his eyes on the trees around them, but they went to her sleeping form again and again.

The pull of the stone was getting stronger. The fires in him resonated with its song. He grew impatient with the girl’s slowness and carried her bodily for miles.

She laughed with her arms around his neck. “You are so strong!”

He set her down on the bank of the river and sat to dump out his boots. “How much further to this Weldsted?”

“Soon,” she promised. “The river is close to the crossroads.”

There was a small camp there already, a group of rowdy traders. He haggled a new tunic from them and some food. Jolene stayed by his side, her slender fingers gripping his arm.

These traders leered at her and brashly asked her price. Enon took his supplies.

“Not for sale.”

They laughed. “I can see why. You’re a lucky man, stranger!”

Whistles followed them down the road. She was shaking.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” he told her, peeling off her hands so he could set up their camp.

“I know, Enon. Thank you.”

_Be wary, Enon._

He was. He lay back against a fallen tree and tried to see the stars through the dense canopy above. It was why he couldn’t sleep. Thinking of his home, his family. His wife’s hair had been red. Hadn’t it?

Her eyes were dark pools in the night, watching him. Silently she stood, as always graceful. She came to him and touched his face, his chest.

She still smelled of flowers, her hair silk under his hands. How had it grown so long?

He stilled, gripping her hand where it wondered down his torso.

“What is it?” she asked, lips moving against his jaw.

“Stop.”

Even in the night he could see her pout. Her lips were perfect, soft, curving. But the wrong shape. Not hers.

“But Enon, don’t you want me?”

He did, very much. Too much. His want had driven her away, lost her forever. Left a hole even the power of the stones could not fill.

Jolene put her hand on his chest, over his heart. She laughed, low and rich. “I can feel your heart racing.”

It was, fed by the searing flames that rose up to protect him. She pressed against him, teeth on his neck.

“Enough,” He tried to push her away. Her nails bit into his skin.

“I want you, Enon.” Her hand were cold suddenly. Trying to numb him, drown him, quench his power. Her magic wormed into him, searching for the Flame. “Let me show you.”

He twisted her arm around behind her. Light flashed in her other hand. He jerked back from it and slashed with his knife.

Her scream cut through the lust dragging him down. Her blood was the same color as her hair in the moonlight.

“I’ll kill you!” she shrieked. He dodged her attacks, spears of flame and ice. Her blood splattered his face. “I’ll eat your heart!”

He believed it, trying to get close enough to end her. What magic was this? He had never seen its like. Not in the Watch, not Hyrule.

His weapons were ineffectual. His sword fell from his grip, too cold to hold, burning his palm. His knife was too short, her skill not affected by her missing hand.

Rage made her reckless. She stabbed for his face. He twisted aside, the edge of the flame cutting his cheek. He caught her a heavy blow in the stomach, a second across the temple. She fell, stunned.

Her hand gripped his wrist, tears dripping over his skin.

“Enon, please,” she begged, voice like music once again. “Please, I love-”

He couldn’t hear her pleas, an exultant chorus roaring in his mind as he used his power. Her scream choked off, his magic slicing through her.

She fell limp to the ground, beautiful eyes open and staring.

He sat, staring at his hands, still glowing with that strange luminous red like the living rock of Eldin.

 

The traders jeered as he passed them again.

“If you were tired of her, I’d have taken her off your hands.”

Enon smiled and their crude mirth faltered. “She’s all yours,” he promised, waving over his shoulder. “If you’re quick, there may be some of bits of her left.”

 

Balka went to her daily beating and Jushi was not there. She scowled at his closed door. It was sealed with magic, or she would have taken the opportunity to poke around, see if she could find anything of use.

She stopped one of the workers. “Where is Jushi?”

They pointed back toward the Lady’s chambers. “Called him in early. In a rare state.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you mad, lady Balka? Enjoy your respite.”

Balka laughed. “No, I want them to earn full retribution when Enon returns.”

The woman chuckled, pleased by this grim humor. “And just it shall be. Good luck, lady Balka.”

The Lady’s rooms were usually guarded by mages and _uskers_. The beasts stood alone today, the woman’s shrieks telling Balka where the mages were.

The _usker_ on the left stopped her. “Mistress will hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Wait here. Man come back.”

Balka weighed her chances at surviving after interrupting. She sat on the stone steps and chatted with the _uskers_ until the doors slammed open. Jushi and the others streamed out. Balka planted herself in his way.

He almost cringed from her. “Out of my way, girl!”

“I will have it witnessed that I did nothing to avoid my punishment,” she said loudly.

“Blasted wretch, move!”

He pushed by her. The _usker_ caught her and gently set her on her feet. Jushi went, kicking at the others and snarling expletives.

“What happened?” Balka asked.

“Yuni dead.” Another said, “Mage, killed by man.”

Balka turned to him eagerly. “Enon?” No wonder her fury. She thanked them and ran to her work with light feet.

 

His boots shifted the bones littering the ground. Animal, human. The dull carapaces of the giant insect-like _crytch_ that inhabited this jungle. And on the walls, the fallen stones, carvings of the great serpent.

He crept forward, listening to its hissing breaths. The air moved with them, caressing his skin, almost like that witch’s hands. It would be a long time until he forgot them.

The stone sang to him, resonating with its sister. Not hot, but warm, rich, earthy. Clutched in the cold jaws of the serpent king.

He wanted his Sword. Missed the weight of it, the power it gave. Yet, he had power of his own. How to use it?

Its head was as tall as he was, its body thick and coiled. It wrapped around the pillars of this ancient temple. More bones here, weapons. Would his join them?

He couldn’t, he _had_ to find the stones. She waited for him. Not his dead wife, not any woman he had seen before. A goddess, promised to him.

There, shining beneath the skin, deep in its heart. Had it eaten whoever had possessed it before him? Were their bones rotting beneath his boots?

Its cries shook the temple, bring down chunks of dirt and rock. He ran forward, ducking as a massive coil slammed into the wall. He grabbed another sword, his left piercing one of its great, glowing eyes.

He jumped onto a fallen block, another, scrambled up a leaning pillar. It thrashed below him, ichor streaming to pool on the floor.

He jumped, hands ablaze, sword gleaming red hot as he drove it through the beast’s skull.

It took a long time to die, twitching and shuddering. Enon watched with lazy satisfaction until it was finally still. Its hide was tough. He sweated in the heat as he cut it apart.

Its heart still beat, sluggish and dripping. The muscle fell away from his hand.

The emerald had the same fire within, the same energy. He hated this place, the heat and the suffocating plants. But he could see its beauty, feel the life surging through as the stone became part of him.

The rage of the fires calmed, controlled by the slow pulse of the emerald.

One more.

_Be wary, Enon of Ordon._

 

Link jerked awake. Zelda was already across the room, the door to the children’s dormitory open. Cantor stood there, crying.

“What is it, darling?”

Link rubbed his face, trying to follow the boy’s tumbled sobs. Zelda soothed him, hugging him tightly.

“A giant snake! Enon killed it!”

Link sat up. “Enon?”

Cantor sniffed. “He found it, daddy. But now he has to go home!”

“Found what, Cantor?”

“The stone.”

“Stone?”

Zelda spoke harshly. “It was just a nightmare. Come, Cantor. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Link lay awake, listening as Zelda’s angry steps came across the room. With him? Or her son’s dreams?

She huffed, curled away from him.

He waited. Finally, she flopped over.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“He kept saying we must be ready. That he will need us soon.”

Link held her close. “Don’t worry. He’s strong.”

 

Balka was called to the Lady’s bed chamber again. Swallowing her trepidation, she entered the richly furnished place. It gave her a small bit of comfort that Ust was one of the guards. How many _uskers_ were there all together?

The Lady lounged in her throne. She smiled and beckoned Balka closer.

“Your Hero is doing well,” she praised. How Balka wanted to taunt her with the deaths of her devotees. Instead, she allowed her face to brighten.

“He will be home soon?”

The witch smiled. “I hope so.”

Balka’s tears were not entirely fake. “I miss him so.”

The woman toyed with her pendant. “You must miss your home.”

“Very much.”

“Would you like to see it?”

Balka met the woman’s hard eyes. “Hyrule?”

She was drawn to a smooth rock set in a pedestal, about waist high. Around it, the floor was clear.

“A Portal Stone,” the woman explained. “With it, I can see far across the ocean, other lands, or even…”

An image wavered in midair, showing Balka the back of her ugly dress. She turned and saw herself twisting to peer behind. She went up to it. It was not a mirror. She made to touch it.

“Ah, ah, ah!” The Lady cautioned. “Carefully.”

“Can I see my home now?”

“Place your hand here.”

The eagerness in her eyes warned Balka to choose carefully. Where could she place this portal, this pathway, that was unremarkable?

The image blurred and solidified into an orchard, slumbering in the winter. It could not be seen from the angle, but Terpandra rose behind her, the town beyond the hill. From here, only lines of trees stretched into nameless hills.

Balka sighed happily. “My favorite place,” she lied.

“It must be beautiful in the spring. All those apple blossoms.”

“Cherry,” Balka lied. “And pear.”

The Lady made a noise that would have been a grunt in someone less lovely. “Would you like to go there?”

Balka gaped at her. “Now?”

The Lady smiled. “Don’t you want to go home?” Her voice deepened, persuasive. “Don’t you miss your family?”

Balka snatched her hand from the stone to cover her face was she cried. She did not want the stone to find her family, likely in the castle. “Yes!” she gushed. “But I cannot leave Enon!”

The Lady was out of patience. She stormed over to her chair. “Maybe if you are good, I will let you see them. Now, back to work, little Balka.”

Balka dropped a little curtesy. “Thank you, lady.”

“Go.” Balka hurried out.

 Brenta listened to her story with wide eyes. “I should have liked to see your home.”

“Once I free you, you can come live in the palace with me. But what is that thing?”

“Free me?” Brenta repeated blankly.

Balka squeezed her hand. “You don’t think Enon and I would leave you all enslaved after he returns?” She had expected excitement, not uneasiness. “What is it?”

“I overheard Jushi and another of the mages talking.”

Balka dumped her latrine bucket over the wall. “Yes?”

“Jushi was saying that…” Brenta closed her eyes in memory. “That the plan was proceeding, that he was taking the bait. That the death of Yuni could be used instead.”

Balka lifted another load. “They can’t break him.”

But it didn’t make sense, now she considered. Why send him to do something, then try to stop him?

Snow blew past her face, so used to the cold she hardly noticed the icy pellets brushed her cheeks. She went with Brenta back inside, still thinking.

 

She couldn’t sleep. She was huddled close to Brenta and Gridre, sharing their three blankets. “It is how Ordonain soldiers stay alive during the winter,” she explained. Soon, everyone in the slave quarters was paired up.

Leaving her sleeping partners, she pulled her wrap close around her. The corridors were dark. Even the most raucous of the mages had gone to their beds.

The pits were clammy. The _uskers_ slept in a mass. A few heads lifted, then settled as they recognized her.

Yska yawned, mouth gaping. Balka could fit her entire head in it.

“Balka? Why not sleep?”

“I can’t. I’m worried about Enon.”

She grunted, wiggling back into the mess of scaly bodies. “Man hurt?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why worry? If strong, he lives. If weak, he dies.”

Balka sat between her front paws. “I’m still scared. What will happen to me of he does not come back?”

Yska’s eye was sharp, intelligent. “If man returns, will girl be safe?”

Balka rubbed Yska’s ridges. “Enon would never hurt me.”

Yska seemed to be thinking. “I hear Mistress talking. Says man has two stones. Excited.”

Balka still felt she was missing something. Why be angry he killed the mages sent to stop him, then pleased he was succeeding? It made no sense, even for some as insane as this sorceress. Why seek the Hero and then be furious when he comes?

Balka knew Enon would deny being the Hero. That the Queen was the Hero, Chosen of the Goddess. But she could not forget the change in his eyes, his voice. How the Master Sword accepted him.

Could there be more than one Hero?

Balka yawned, chilled and tired. “I should go. Thank you, Yska. I am glad you are my friend.”

Yska nuzzled her. “Good Balka, bring meat.”

Balka giggled as Yska’s rough tongue tickled her neck. “Stop! I will bring some tomorrow if I can. Something small, mind you. They are watching me like hawks.”

“Bring small meat, give to hatchling.”

Balka sat up, surprised. “You have babies?”

Yska grin was nothing short of a proud gloat. “One, two, three eggs. All hatch.”

“Where? Can I see them?”

Yska led her deeper into the cavern. Down a narrow passage just wide enough for the _usker_ to pass, a small room had been hollowed out.

It was lined with rags and bits of fluff, fleece, feathers. The air was passably warm. Two other females slept here. They rose hissing, but settled when they saw Yska.

Balka watched fascinated as Yska nosed a small bundle at one side. Tiny squeaks protested. Then a narrow snout appeared. It whimpered and Yska caressed the baby’s head.

Balka knelt to peer at them. “Yska, they are beautiful! May I?”

The proud _usker_ mother watched as Balka stroked the little creature. Its heartbeat thrummed under her hand, tiny breaths like flutters of a bird. It looked at her curiously.

“How old?”

“Moon dark again. Just open eyes.”

“I love them!” Balka giggled as one roused enough to nibble at her finger, tiny teeth pricking her skin. “So strong already!”

Yska preened. “Tuk, mate.” Balka knew the brightly colored male. She soothed the babies, stroking their tiny ridges until they slumped over with pleasure.

Yska helped her tuck them back into their nest. She yawned mightily as they walked back to main room.

“Girl sleep. Go.”

Balka hugged Yska’s arm, aware of how bizarre her life had become but too tired to think more on it. She scurried back to the slave quarters and huddled in the blankets, missing Enon’s warmth.


	13. Lanayru's Blessing

He began to wonder if any of this was real. The jungle lay far behind, though her screams chased him across the Great Field. He walked almost without seeing, following not only the stone’s call but his own longing.

Much sooner than he expected, he stepped onto the flat, yellow earth of the Watch. He passed ruined farms and towns left derelict. The cursed land had spread, was spreading, slowly consuming Hyrule.

Ahead were the hills of Ordon. He walked through old battles, bones bleached by the sun, weapons just beginning to rust. How many years since Ganon? He found he could not remember.

He had caught his reflection in a still pond and not recognized himself. Even shaving and cutting his hair did not trigger his memory.

As he walked, he picked up arrows. He fingered the fletching, recognizing the patterns. These were his people’s bones, scattered by weather and _crytch_. Mixed in were Hylian spears, ragged dark blue coats. For or against?

By the welcome he received in Castle Town, they sided with Ganon. An arrow shaft snapped in his hands.

But not his fight. He could do nothing here. He didn’t belong here. It felt wrong, the air, the sun. Like a dream.

The Gap opened before him. The bridge still spanned the ravine. Enon stood for a long time, considering.

Ordon would never have left it in place. It would have been burned at the first threat of invasion. Why had Ordon moved en masse against Hyrule? Even as better soldiers, they could not hold ground against Hyrule’s much larger army.

Enon turned up a winding path. It led to a sharp ridge, deep in the hills. Here a second bridge lay hidden, a few stout timbers above the head of the Black River. They had long since rotted. He took a running leap and jumped the span.

His unease did not lesson even as he stepped onto Ordonian soil. Where was the earth mother, the Goddess of this place? She had not answered his prayers.

He did not recognize himself, but did know the destruction that was his home. He stood high above the ruined city. The land was desolate, nothing growing even this long after. The Watch had infected Ordon’s heart and left it barren.

The stone was here. Yet he hesitated. Man and beast, they were nothing to him. He took the stone from them as easily as he took their lives. This place…

More than his own urgency pushed him forward. She waited for him, this woman he could not recall. She was in danger and he needed the stones to save her.

He took all day and into the evening to creep into the ruined city. There was no sound, no movement hinting at life, human or otherwise.

His steps echoed dully from the fallen stone buildings. He brushed away years of dirt from a fresco. It was a common scene in Ordon, the Goddess rising above her people, the sun at her back.

Deep gouges obscured Her face.

Ordona’s figure crushed in a dry fountain.

Her Name scratched out of carvings.

Enon came to the temple arch. It still stood, the interior dark with the sun setting behind it. He lit a torch and tossed it inside.

The flames made the Sword gleam golden.

It was a trap, but he needed it. Wanted it, desperately. She needed him.

It was mounted in block of redstone fallen from the ceiling. He drew off his gloves, worn to hide the power in his hands.

He gripped the hilt and pulled it sharply up.

It was a beautiful weapon. He had always thought so, had longed for it, to be its Master.

“So, you have come.” He turned. A man stood in the door, outside of the torches’ flickering light. “Longer than I expected. Could your Goddess not find someone worthy?”

“Who are you?”

It was his laugh. Enon couldn’t help his gasp, a sick, sharp clench in his chest. Link stepped forward, smiling.

“Have my people forgotten me already? The question is, who are _you_?”

Enon gritted his teeth, struggling to control the stones. They had been made to fight this evil, long ago when it was still without form. Link walked around him, the flames of the torch not reflecting on his flat black armor.

“I thought you were all dead,” he mused, still smiling. “I made sure of it.”

“Like you murdered Zelda?” Enon shot at him.

Link’s smirk faltered. “She chose her fate.”

Enon snarled at him, a lifetime of betrayal and fury rising up to choke him. This man, this _monster_ , had taken everything from him.

Link laughed softly. “Hate will not help you, Hero. Hate is mine. As is that weapon you carry.”

Enon cried out from pain. Darkness clawed at his arms. He dropped the blade, scrambling back.

Link held it up and admired the shadows in it. “It has had only one equal. But there can only be one Master.”

Enon drew his own weapon. It was clumsy, unbalanced, nothing to the might of the Shadow Blade.

“Now, Hero. Let us end this.”

Enon defended, driven back. He remembered this man’s skill but had never faced him in person. He was too young when the Shadow had taken his idol, had not yet picked up a real sword. His childhood had ended abruptly that day, so many years ago.

Link smiled at him, almost like he used to. “I am impressed. You are a true Soldier of Ordon.”

Enon watched the Blade warily. He feared what would happen if it touched him, what darkness would infect the wound. The torch was burning down, embers flaring.

Link drew back suddenly, eyes wide. Staring at Enon’s hands. He risked a look. His palms were glowing with the same flickering light.

Link’s dark eyes met his, surprised. “You hold the Flame of Eldin?” The thing inside Link spoke to him directly, ancient and terrible. “How are you not consumed, human?”

Enon did not know. His distraction nearly cost him his life, blocking Link’s strikes as sparks flew from the blades. He could not match his speed and his sword went spinning into the shadows.

“Pity. I had hoped you would be stronger than the others.” He drew back to deliver the thrust.

Enon blinked his eyes clear, blinded by the flash. He lowered his arms, raised instinctive self-defense. Link was staggering back.

Enon dove for where his sword had vanished. He gripped the hilt and turned in time knock Link’s strike back.

“And the Heart of Faron?” Link no longer smiled. “Who _are_ you?”

Enon set his feet. “I am Enon of Ordon.”

Link frowned, looking past him into memory. “I know you.”

“And I know you, traitor!”

Link hissed at him. “You know _nothing_ of betrayal.”

“I know how you slaughtered my people, my mother, my wife and child!”

The last of the torchlight reflected dimly in the Blade. Caught the embossment of the Triforce at the throat. Gleamed deep, endless blue on the sapphire of the pommel stone.

Enon fought until sweat dripped from his face, but he could not break Link’s defense. Every block, every thrust a fresh betrayal, skill he had received from Ordon’s sword masters.

Enon fell to a knee. The Heart of Faron was weakening, draining him as it prevented his death.

“I am impressed,” Link said slowly. “Why do you fight me, Enon? Your people are dead. There is no hope here, no honor. I could use you.”

Enon dragged himself up. He needed the sapphire. He could not get home without it. She needed him, was in danger.

“I will _never_ join you.”

Link shrugged. “A waste. Now, you will join your goddess.”

Enon grinned, mouth slick with blood. His goddess waited for him, calling his name.

The last of the light sputtered and died. The Shadow Blade thrust, searching for his heart. He dropped his sword.

The blade slid along his ribs. His hands closed around Link’s, around the hilt, flames licking up his arms, eager. Link snarled, straining to wrench the Blade around, slice it through Enon’s heart.

The metal of the hilt glowed red, then yellow. Enon forced it hotter, had to turn his face away from the blinding light as the hilt turned white, almost violet.

His hand closed around the cold, hard gemstone.

The Shadow Blade hissed angrily, sinking into the stone of the temple floor. Link -Ganon- was screaming, cursing him.

Enon held the stone tight, looking down on the man he had loved. As he watched, he faded. The temple grew distant and muffled. The night deepened. The moon dimmed. The stars died.

It was cold, this power. The three of them danced together, rejoiced. They had been separated for so long. More ancient than Hyrule, than the Triforce, reaching back to the beginning of this war.

Enon took a deep breath. The wound along his chest eased, healing. The sapphire’s cool fires soothed the pain. Soothed all his pain, hurt he had not known he still carried.

Link’s betrayal. His own greed and lust. The guilt that weighed on his soul. His failures, of his people, his family.

The gems glinted in his hand. Their winking facets were tawdry compared to the power within. He gripped them tight.

 

Balka was scrubbing the floor of the main hall when a rumble sloshed her bucket. The castle reverberated, dust falling from the ceiling. The pillar next to her cracked.

She scrambled to safety, sliding under a heavy table. The _usker_ guards squawked and hissed as they fought for footing.

Slowly, all fell to silence.

Balka peeked out. Faces peered from every doorway, white and fearful.

A piercing shriek from the sorceress’ chamber. Balka drew her knife and ran with the _uskers_. The doors slammed opened.

The Lady stood, head thrown back, her shrill laugh grating on Balka’s ears.

She stumbled to a halt. “ _Enon!_ ”

He looked at her. His brown eyes held no recognition.

“Are you her?” he asked.

“Enon,” the Lady said. “Enon, _I_ am the one you seek.”

He turned to the woman. She held out her hand. “Come to me, my warrior.”

He didn’t move, eyes narrowing.

She walked forward slowly, voice like silk. “Come to me, my brave soldier. Show me what you have won.”

He held out a hand. Three gems glinted in his palm. The Lady hissed with satisfaction, eagerness. They lifted and settled in the hollows of the pendant.

Balka screamed with rage as the sorceress touched him, caressed his face. She leapt forward, knife raised.

His hand closed hard around her wrist. He lifted her from the ground. She kicked, writhing to break free.

“Kill her,” the Lady murmured gently.

He didn’t obey, just looked at Balka keenly. “Are you her?” he asked again.

“Enon! It’s me! Balka!”

“Kill her, Enon. She is nothing.” He glanced at the Lady. She smiled at him, eyes shining. “I want to watch her die by your hand.”

He reached over his shoulder and drew a sword. The Sword. She whimpered as the edge of it touched her neck.

“Please, Enon! Remember!”

He drew the Sword back.

A terrible snarl snapped his head around. He dropped her and went skidding back as the _usker’s_ sword slammed into his.

The beast shoved Balka aside, its fellow leaping to join the fray. Furniture crashed. The Lady bellowed, hurling curses and spells at them. Other mages rushed in.

Balka scrambled free and ran for the Portal Stone. It was hot under her hand.

“Link!” she screamed. “Link! Enon needs you!”

The Stone hummed louder than the crashes and snarls of the combatants thrashing around her. The Portal opened, ripping the air.

Link stepped through. He saw her. Then Enon.

The Consort’s voice carried over the noise. “Enon! _Entena_!”

The room stilled. The two men measured each other.

“What do you here, Enon?”

She hated the blankness in his voice. “Have you betrayed us here, too, Champion?”

Balka cringed from the anger in Link’s face. “You have something of mine, young prince.”

The Master Sword was smeared with _usker_ blood. The sorceress went to Enon and draped her arms on his shoulders, embracing him.

“And now it is _mine_.”

Link’s eyes were as sharp as the sword in his hand. “So, you are the one giving my son nightmares.”

She mocked him. “You had your chance to serve me.” She pressed close to Enon. “Kill him.”

 

_Kill him._

Her magic swirled around him, whispering, urging him. But he could never hurt this man, a brother, a friend. She wanted him to, hoped seeing the Champion fallen would break him. Knowing Link was the one to destroy his home. But he had already forgiven his prince for betraying his people. Knew the weight carried everyday by his prince and king.

 _Kill her_.

Did she think he could ever harm the woman he loved? Did she not know how close he came to ripping her innocence from her, destroying her? Did she think her puppet in the jungle could seduce him? When he had this goddess waiting for him?

 _Kill them_ _all._

They ranged before him, all he had slain in that cursed place. For all her power, had she not seen the blood on his hands? Did she really think this was the first time he’d killed? He was Enon of Ordon. He was a soldier, a prince.

Did she think she could break him?

Light glinted off Link’s sword, some worthless span of steel. Enon met his eyes, seeing clearly the power there. Golden, deep, latent. This witch knew not what she meddled with.

“Do it, Enon! Kill him for me.” Such wondrous promise there. Serving her, her dark Hero. He had to obey, the compulsion overpowering his body.

He crossed the room, Sword ready. Link met him. The Sword resisted, straining to return to its Master.

He was dimly aware of the noise of battle elsewhere. Men screaming, shouts of defiance. The guttural calls of the _usker._ He had only enough strength to keep Link at bay. Just like the other Link, but calm and sorrowful where the other was filled with hate.

“Finish him!” the sorceress urged.

Enon would finish this. She underestimated Link and underestimated him.

It was a risk. But Link was the best swordsman since the Golden Age of Iswyn, when gods walked among men. And his prince loved him, wouldn’t kill him but in final desperation. Right?

He feinted, dropped into third, and thrust for Link’s heart.

The Sword cut nothing but air as Link twisted. His hand closed over Enon’s. Enon grunted, his wrist wrenched over with a sharp crack. The Sword fell from his grip. It sang rejoiced as Link reclaimed it.

The sorceress shrieked. Enon cradled his broken arm, her fury blinding him. Link shoved him aside, stepping forward to protect him.

“Now, witch, let us end this.”

Her chest heaved as she spat curses at him. “I grow weary of your rebellion, boy.”

“And I your meddling.”

“You cannot kill me, especially not _now_ , weak as you are.”

Enon pushed back against her control. His arm grew cold, the pain washed away. The stones danced in him and his hand worked again. He allowed their power to build, welcoming the fires. She crowed triumph, mocking Link.

“You come here alone? And think to challenge _me?_ I hope you kissed your filthy brats good-bye, mighty prince.”

She watched Link hungrily, searching for an opening. The room grew clearer, the remnants of that other place, of her magic, burnt from his mind.

He had no weapon. Link held both swords, but he had no way to protect himself against her attacks. She drew her hands back, a dark power gathering.

Enon jumped in front of his prince. The same light flashed, but he was ready for it, saw the mighty serpent coiled around him, deflecting the blast of power off its scales.

She stumbled back. Her eyes were no longer beautiful, but mad with hate, wide and staring.

“Impossible!” She gripped the pendant. “The Stones are _mine_. _You_ are mine!”

Enon clenched his fists, waves of heat surrounding him. “I belong to one woman, Tioden.”

The sorceress panted, teeth bared. She struck again and again. The Sword shrieked as it cut down her attacks. Enon advanced step by step, the air shimmering as the heat around him grew.

Her eyes moved wildly from Link to him and back. Between them, they could take her. The Sword and the Ruilin, relics of ancient heroes.

Tioden sneered at them. “If you will not serve me, then she will die with you.”

She bolted. Enon gave chase, shoving through the men bunched in the corridor, fighting, shouting. They attacked him. His magic ripped through them, blasting them aside.

 Her insane laugh bounced from the ruined walls. He broke through a knit of struggling men and women and found her clutching Balka, knife at the girl’s throat.

“You think I cannot break you, Enon of Ordon? Give them to me or she dies!”

Enon’s furious, desperate protest died on his lips. Balka stood calm. A secretive smile curved her lips.

Tioden bellowed threats, dragging Balka along the corridor. She detailed the gruesome ways she would torture and kill his beloved. All while the girl smiled at him, making no struggle to escape. Her knife hung in her hand, crimsoned but still.

She said his name, the syllables a dance.

“Balka?”

 _Don’t worry_ , she said.

“Balka, _please_ -!”

Out of the shadows a form rose. Nearly half again the height of the sorceress, snarling, blood dripping from its jaws. The _usker_ looked down at the sorceress. The woman broke off her tirade, looking up to the monster.

It blinked, once, twice. Then, in one sharp motion, closed its mouth around Tioden’s head.

Even Link cringed back, hand up in a gesture of revulsion. The room went still. The _usker_ spat out the crushed skull, the body twitching at its feet.

“Kill man?” it asked hopefully.

Balka smiled on it. “Yes, kill all the bad men, please.”

Link gripped Enon’s arm, holding him fast as many broke and ran, the _uskers_ jumping after them. Others stood as they did, watching calmly as their fellows were slaughtered. But none in the dirty gray clothing Balka wore, none who fought with staves and fists.

It was over quickly, for better or worse.

Link pulled him into a hug, crushing him against his chest. He was weeping, fingers biting into Enon’s arms.

“I thought I’d lost you!” he choked out. “Enon, I thought I’d lost you forever!”

Enon buried his face in the shorter man’s shoulder. Since when had he been taller than Link? It felt almost sacrilegious, to stand over this mightiest of warriors.

Link pushed him away, fury and happiness a strange combination on his face. “You’ll wish you’d never been born,” he threatened. “I’m going to beat you until even _Ordon_ protests!”

Enon couldn’t stop his laugh. Could the man lay a finger on him? Or would Faron protect him? Would Lanyru heal him as fast as the lashes came?

“Enon?”

He turned to her, the most beautiful of women. Even with her hair straggled around her face, blood splattered on her fair skin. She ran to him.

He thought he would drown, unable to breathe for love of her. She pushed away. She held out his knife.

“Your weapon, soldier.”

He pushed it back at her. “I will spend my life earning it, _maitei_.”

She wiped it clean, another stain on her shapeless dress. She sheathed it and the fires around his heart tightened with the promise.

She turned to survey the carnage, unfazed by the sight of the _uskers_ gorging themselves on the dead. “She did not keep the Oath.”

“Tioden?”

She nodded. Enon held her still, pulling aside the neck of her gown. The red mark there went down her back, one of many. Deep purple bruises mottled her skin, some greenish, some fading to yellow.

“Their magic was truly pitiful,” Balka said coolly. “I wonder if she only gave them a little, enough to bind them to her. Fara could do better in her sleep.”

Could he heal her? The power was there, but it stayed in his hands. He could not use the magic on her. He held her more gingerly. She laughed at him.

“It’s only a little beating,” she teased. “Nothing like what you’re going to get.”

Link was speaking with some of the people. They stared at him in awe. Both of his hands glowed, the mark of the Triforce brilliant in his anger.

Balka turned suddenly. “Yska!”

She ran to the _usker_ and hugged the creature tightly around the arm. Enon surged forward, but the claw descending on his beloved’s head was gentle, caressing.

“Man return?”

“Yes, Yska. And he is sorry. Tell them, Enon.”

“I am sorry…?”

“For killing those two _uskers_.”

He remembered. How long ago was it? How long was he in that awful place? Weeks? Months?

He looked up to this Yska’s blank stare. “I am sorry, Yska. I did not know, but that is not an excuse for my actions. I will face any punishment you deem just.”

Yska made an awful noise and Balka laughed merrily. “I know, isn’t he funny? It’s his Ordonian blood; they’re gluttons for punishment.”

Yska crooned. “And you, little Balka. Let man beat you again and again.”

Balka grinned. “Was he delicious?”

Yska’s tongue flicked in and out. “Yes.”

“Enon,” Link commanded. “Come.”

He gripped Balka’s hand and followed his prince into the chill winter morning.

 

It was raining when Balka stepped through the portal. It closed behind her, the stone heavy in her arms. She looked over the courtyard and scowled.

The Hylian guards stood weapons braced in front of the main doors to the castle. A line of _uskers_ watched them curiously. And a little hungrily.

“Sosts!” she scolded. “You may not eat Hylians!”

The male smiled sheepishly, tail curling. “Smell delicious.”

Before anyone could respond to this horrifying remark, someone broke through the Hylian ranks.

“ _Tama_!”

Link stepped forward to swing Arnon up into his arms. Anwyn climbed up his leg and was hefted to sit on his shoulder. Then Zelda came, furious.

“How _dare_ you sneak off like that!” she shouted at him. “I am your Queen _and_ the Hero! How _dare_ you presume to-”

Arnon and Anwyn made faces as Link kissed her soundly on the mouth.

The guards moved aside as the rest of the children swarmed their father.

“Oh, no,” Enon groaned. Balka watched as a short, plump woman came next, shoving past two now bewildered Hylian soldiers.

“Ara Enon Covori tan Dhatin!”

She reached up and jabbed him in the chest, a gesture Balka was beginning to recognize as how an Ordonian woman expressed deepest displeasure with the men in her life. Zelda was currently doing it to Link. “Explain yourself, Enon!”

Enon’s arm scooped around Balka’s waist, pulling her forward. “ _Ama_ , this is Balka of Terpandra.”

Maybe Sost would like to eat _her_ instead. It seemed preferable to facing this fuming woman. Enon’s mother looked her up and down. “ _This_ is your choice of wife?”

“Yes.” His assurance helped her quell her tremors.

“Against my wishes?”

“Yes, mother.”

He must have his father’s eyes, for this woman’s were gray and sharp. Balka took comfort in the giant lizard standing next to her.

“I am pleased to finally meet you, lady. Enon has told me much about you.”

The woman sniffed. “And I about _you.”_

Balka gripped Enon’s hand to keep her temper.

 “I am well aware you do not approve of our marriage.”

“Yet you choose to disobey? Flout his duty to his people?”

Why was he so silent? She chanced a peek. The pride in his eyes warmed her straight through. His mother went on, furious. And worried. Balka saw that clearly. Scared for her only son.

“Completely irresponsible, running off together! Should be _ashamed_ of yourselves! I will be speaking to the Champion about this! _And_ her parents!”

Enon barked a laugh. “They certainly won’t object! And Sorrint’s wife is their eldest.”

His mother was horrified. “That air-headed chit is your _sister_?”

Balka said soothingly, “Only the two of us are insane. Han and Nelsin are perfectly respectable, I promise.”

The woman’s lips compressed. Hiding a smile? Balka dared hope.

Yska watched this with interest. “Enon and Balka mates? Lay eggs? Hatchlings?”

“Something like that,” Balka said as Enon choked. Yska watched the children as they danced and played.

“Small men…hatchlings?”

“Yes, Link and Zelda’s children. They are very young. There is a new baby, too.”

Yska made a pleased noise. “I bring hatchlings. Live safe and warm here.”

Balka tried to imagine a brood of infant _uskers_ running loose in the palace. By the blank look on Enon’s face, he was, too.

“ _Ordona, barka ai so_.”

Balka laughed and laughed.

 

It was well into the night before she curled into her bed. Her parents were in Terpandra, summoned by the fastest horse. So, she had a few days respite from scolding. Zelda tried to fulfill that role. But between her children, Enon, her husband, and keeping the panicky populace calm while the _uskers_ found suitable places to nest, she didn’t have the attention to spare.

Balka sighed. It was paradise, this bed. The warmth from the coals in her grate. Her body free from pain and hunger. It was almost as good as her fantasy. She’d even forgo the diamond earrings.

Not long after, she was woken by a small noise. She grumbled, lifting her head. The servant was going to get an earful…!

Enon’s warm body slid into the bed next to her.

She squeaked, whispering fiercely. “What are you doing in here?”

“I can’t sleep.” His arm circled her waist, pulling her against his chest. “I can’t sleep without you next to me.”

A sound and logical explanation.

“And…”

“And?”

“And I keep having nightmares.”

“What about?”

“You.”

She turned to look at him. “Me?”

“If that witch had killed you. If _I_ had killed you. If I…” He took a deep breath. “If I had raped you.”

“You didn’t.”

He said nothing, his head pressed into her shoulder.

“Enon, look at me.”

He did, reluctantly.

“I love you. I forgive you.” She caught his chin as he tried to look away. “Now, forgive yourself.”

He scowled. “I hate that it is what saved me.”

Balka smoothed the lines from his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“She wanted to break me. She sent me there, this other Hyrule, to break me.” His eyes looked through her. “It was awful. Ganon had won, Link had killed Zelda. My people were slaughtered. I remembered it, a little. I was older, I think. I…” His eyes flashed to hers and away. “I had a wife and child. They were dead.”

She firmly squashed a little wriggling worm of jealousy. “I’m sorry you had to live through that.”

“But I remembered you. When…” He wouldn’t look her in the face again. “When that woman came, Jolene, when she touched me, I remembered you. Your hair.”

He smiled a little. “You looked like a wild street urchin, _maitei_. I hardly knew you.”

She laughed, sick and scared. “I thought you were lost to me.”

“Tioden thought killing those men, that woman, seeing Link fallen to Shadow, would destroy me, make me like her,” Enon said softly. “But I have done terrible things here, to people I _love_. Nothing even she could devise could come close.”

Balka hugged him close. “You are a good man, Enon. You make mistakes, like everyone else. You are the bravest person I know, because when you make mistakes, you admit them and accept your punishment. Stop punishing _yourself_.”

He wanted to kiss her, she could tell. But didn’t trust himself. So she kissed him.

He pushed away, hands clenched around her sheets. “No, we can’t.”

What was it Psatep had said, that their journey was tantamount to marriage? “You claimed me as your wife, Enon.”

“To protect you.”

“To your mother’s face.”

He groaned, pressing his face into the pillow. “She is going to be impossible.”

“And more grandbabies won’t soften her heart?”

He snapped his head up. “No!”

She was surprised. “No?”

“You want to travel, to see the world. We can’t do that if you’re pregnant! Or raising children.”

“Why not?”

“Balka, I am damn well not going to let my wife traipse about the countryside great with child!”

She hushed him, giggling. “We’ll use the Portal Stone.”

“Absolutely-”

She jabbed his chest with a finger as she had seen his mother do. It was less effective when his chest was only inches above her own. He still broke off, conditioned, maybe, after a lifetime of scolding.

“You said I get to choose my future.”

“Balka,” he pleaded.

“Ordona witnessed your Oath.”

“The whole thing was madness!”

She gripped his tunic, drawing him closer. “I choose you, Enon. Husband.”

For all his strength and discipline, he was only a man. She giggled, his lips brushing her collarbone.

“Enon?”

“Hmmmm?”

“First, tell me about these stones.”

“Stones?” Her heart lurched deliciously as he slurred the word, almost as if he was drunk.

“The stones you were sent to find?”

His hands suddenly burned hot against her back. “Later, _maitei.”_

“But-”

“ _Later_.”

 

Zelda was never her best on a short night sleep. Link smiled as her hair stood up all around her head. The servant was nervous, not only for waking the Queen but also the news she brought.

“His bed has not been slept in,” the woman said.

Zelda scowled. “So?”

“We are concerned, ma’am. With those nasty beasts roaming about.”

Link yawned. “He’s fine.”

Zelda turned her scowl on him. He grinned at her and she went pink.

“Do not concern yourself,” she told the servant loftily. “I am sure he is well.”

The woman bobbed a curtsy and hurried out. Zelda turned her furious glare on him.

“What did you expect?” he asked. “Balka was raised a paltry Hylian waif, but if she is half as eager as you were-”

She hit his face with a pillow.


End file.
